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TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


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D 


D 


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oti 
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sh) 

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be) 
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illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

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S 

6 

The  Legend  of  St.  Olaf  s  Kirk. 


By  GEORGE  HOUGHTON. 
New  Edition. 
"Little  Classic"  style 


$t.oo 


A  well-written  poem,  and  one  of  more  than  ordinary  literary  merit, 
founded  on  a  Scandinavian  legend.  The  author  has  caught  the  true 
spirit  of  his  theme,  and  we  shall  expect  that,  as  the  deeper  merits  of  his 
production  become  recognized,  other  and  larger  editions  will  be  required 
to  meet  the  demand  for  it.  —  The  Churchman  (New  York). 

The  dramatic  power  is  impressive ;  life  among  the  Norsemen  is  vividly 
^kXvx^A.  —  Providence  Jourttal. 

Mr.  Houghton's  sympathetic  study  of  Norse  legends  bears  fruit  nn  a 
very  sincere  and  beautiful  rendering  of  this  tragic  story  of  love,  constancy, 
ai»d  death.  There  is  no  richer  mine  of  poetry  than  that  from  which  he 
has  drawn  the  materials  of  his  poem.  His  verse  is  simple,  natural,  and 
strong.  —  Christian  Union. 

The  great  beauty  of  this  poem,  its  wealth  of  attractiveness.  —  The 
American  (Philadelphia). 

A  narrative  poem  of  great  beauty;  full  of  music  and  poetic  imagery. — 
Cincinnati  Commercial. 

*#*  For  sale  by  Booksellers  ;  or  sent^  post-paid^  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY, 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


<^ 


mm 


NIA 


AND   OTHE^^oAf^ 

GEORGE  HOUSTON 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFIJN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:    II   East  Seventeenth  Street 

1882 


mmmm 


■■■Vli 


mm 


Copyright,  1882, 
By  GEO.  W.  W.  HOUGHTON. 

A/i  rights  reserved. 


N)5 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 

,^ary  ^Ae^■•5h 
Archibald 
Memorial 


wmm 


CONTENTS. 

PART  FIRST. 

Niagara  7 

PART  SECOND. 
Pen  Pictures: 

Sandy  Hook 3» 

The  Shepherdess 32 

The  Harper 33 

Battle  of  the  Ford 34 

Dead  Cedars 35 

Columbus 3" 

The  Mummy  and  the  Rose 37 

Maid  Marie 3° 

The  Manor  Lord 39 

The  Three  Poplars 40 

The  Dream  of  the  Stork 43 

PART  THIRD. 

Songs  and  Ballads  : 

The  Tzigans'  Pot S3 

Longing 55 

Yesterday 5^ 


^Av 


l.*^^ 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

Wynhilda '     .  58 

Anniversary  Hymn 60 

Scarred .61 

Daisies 62 

The  Nest  in  the  Haw 63 

Good  Morrow 64 

The  Red  Rider 66 

Song :   the  Carpenter 68 

The  Handsel  Ring 70 

PART  FOURTH. 

Drift  from  York  Harbor,  Maine: 

Alongshore 75 

The  Gateway 86 

The  Sea-shore 88 

The  Reaper 90 

Four-leaf  Clover 92 

The  Big  Bell 94 

The  Summer  Storm 96 

Evening 98 

The  Black  Boars 100 

The  Witch  of  York 105 

PART   FIFTH. 

Ketill  the  Sagaman  :  Introduction  to  "  Six  Flights 

OF  THE  Dragons." 

I.  The  Winter  Court  at  Nidaros      .        .        .        .111 

II.  The  Sagaman 116 

III.  The  School  of  the  Priests 121 

IV.  The  Saga  of  the  West 128 


PART   FIRST. 


NIAGARA. 


I. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Formed  when  the  oceans  were  fashioned,  when  all 

the  world  was  a  workshop  ; 
Loud  roared  the  furnace  fires,  and  tall  leapt  the 

smoke  from  volcanoes. 
Scooped  were  round  bowls  for  lakes,  and  grooves 

for  the  sliding  of  rivers. 
Whilst,  with  a  cunning  hand,  the  mountains  were 

linked  together. 

Then  through  the  day-dawn,  lurid  with  cloud,  and 
rent  by  forked  lightning. 

Stricken  by  earthquake  beneath,  above  by  the  rat- 
tle of  thunder. 

Sudden  the  clamor  was  pierced  by  a  voice,  deep- 
lunged  and  portentous,  — 

Thine,  O  Niagara,  crying :  "  Now  is  creation  com- 
pleted ! " 


8 


NIAGARA. 


II. 

Millions  of  cup-like  blossoms,  brimming  with  dew 
and  with  rain-drops, 

Mingle  their  tributes  together  to  form  one  slow- 
trickling  brooklet  j 

Thousands  of  brooklets  and  rills,  leaping  down 
from  their  homes  in  the  uplands, 

Grow  to  a  smooth  blue  river,  serene,  and  flowing  in 
silence. 

Hundreds  of  smooth  blue  rivers,  flashing  afar  o'er 
the  prairies, 

Darkening  'neath  forests  of  pine,  deep  drowning 
the  reeds  in  the  marshes. 

Cleaving  with  noiseless  sledge  the  rocks  red-crusted 
with  copper. 

Circle  at  last  to  one  common  goal,  the  Mighty  Sea- 
Water. 


Lo !  to  the  northward  outlying,  wide  glimmers  the 
stretch  of  the  Great-Lake, 

White-capped  and  sprinkled  with  foam,  that  tum- 
bles its  bellowing  breakers 

Landward  on  beaches  of  sand,  and  in  hiding-holes 
hollow  with  thunder, 

Landward  where  plovers  frequent,  with  the  wolf 
and  the  westerine:  bison. 


NIAGARA.  9 

Four  such  Sea-Waters  as  this,  j?  chain   of  green 

laiul-bounden  oceans, 
Pour  into  one  their  tides,  ever  yearning  to  greet  the 

Atlantic, 
Press  to  one  narrow  sluice,  and  proffering  their 

tribute  of  silver, 
Cry  as  they  come  :  *'  Receive  us,  Niagara,  Father 

of  Waters  ! " 


Such  is  the  Iroquois  god,  the  symbol  of  might  and 
of  plenty. 

Shrine  of  the  untutored  brave,  subdued  by  an  un- 
fathomed  longing, 

Seeking  in  water  and  wind,  still  seeking  in  star- 
glow  and  lightning. 

Something  to  kneel  to,  something  to  pray  to,  some- 
thing to  worship. 


Here,  when  the  world  was  wreathed  with  the  scar- 
let and  gold  of  October, 

Here,  from  far-scattered  camps,  came  the  mocca- 
sined  tribes  of  the  red-man. 

Left  in  their  tents  their  bows,  forgot  their  brawls 
and  dissensions, 

Ringed  thee  with  peaceful  fires,  and  over  their  cal- 
umets pondered ; 


10 


NIAGARA, 


Chose   from    their   fairest  virgins  the   fairest  and 

purest  among  them, 
Hollowed  a  birchen  canoe,  and  fashioned  a  seat 

for  the  virgin, 
Clothed  her  in  white,  and  set  her  adrift  to  whirl  to 

thy  bosom, 
Saying :  "  Receive  this  our  vow,  Niagara,  Father  of 

Waters  1 " 


III. 


THE   PILGRIM. 

Pilgrim  I  too  once  came,  to  tender  my  token  of 

homage, 
I  too  once  stood  on  thy  wooded  banks,  my  heart 

filled  with  wonder, 
I  too  would  render  some  gift,  some  tribute  of  song 

and  of  harp-strings. 
But  'neath  the  roll  of   thy  wheels,  my  shepherd's 

flute  was  o'ermastered. 


Calling,  thou  seemest  to  murmur :  "  Come,  and  I 
will  instruct  thee  1  " 

Willing  I  ran,  like  a  palmer  of  old,  with  his  pike- 
staff and  wallet, 


NIAGARA. 


II 


Wiring  I  lingered  long,  to  go  but  to  turn  on  the 

morrow, 
Coming  again  and  again,  —  yet  only  to  doubt  the 

more  deeply 

Idol  I  found  thee,  unfeeling,  challenging  man  but 

to  mock  him, 
Whispering  to  one  that  is  weak  of  voids  that  are 

vast  and  almighty. 
Hinting  of  things  heaven-high  to  one  not  winged 

like  an  eagle. 
Telling  of  changeless  parts  to  a  leaflet  that  reddens 

to  perish ; 

Ever,  as  nearer  I  fared,  the  mightier,  less  merciful 
found  thee. 

Till,  after  listening  long,  I  faltered,  forlorn  and  dis- 
heartened ; 

Wearied  of  ceaseless  strife,  and  yearned  for  some 
peaceful  seclusion. 

Where  to  the  chorusing  throng  both  ear  and  eye 
might  be  shuttered  ; 


Hated  the  turmoil  of  life,  where  sounds  that  are 

sweetest  are  strangled, 
And  into  discord  clash  those  martial  measures,  that 

struggling, 


12 


N: AGAR  A. 


Should  through  the  din  of  the  dismallest  fight,  with 
quavering  echoes, 

Nerve  the  warrior  anew,  and  fire  his  soul  with  de- 
votion. 

Turning  toward  far-off  fields,  I  fled,  till  stopping 
to  listen. 

Only  dull  undertones  told  that  still  thou  wert  call- 
ing and  calling ; 

Wept,  and  wished  it  mid-winter,  that  mufided  in 
snows  of  December, 

All  the  world  might  be  smothered  in  silence  utterly 
soundless  ; 


Wished  like  a  Druid  to  hie  to  some  mountain-top 

shorn  and  unsheltered. 
Where,  in  their  wildest  flights,  the  riotous  winds 

might  be  stifled. 
Finding  no  hollow  reed  through  which  to  pipe  their 

bravuras, 
Finding  no  trembling  twig  on  which  to  twang  their 

lamentings 


Then,  as  I  crost  a  meadow-land,  dight  with  mallow 

and  daisies. 
Heard  the  low  bumble  of  bees,  and  the  delicate 

footsteps  of  robins 


NIAGARA. 


13 


That  o'er  the  crispy  leaves  of  the  scrub-oak  coverts 

went  hopping, 
Suddenly  —  who  shall  explain  it  ?  —  faith  returned 

to  my  bosom ; 

Suddenly  hope  revived,  the  fog  from  the  fens  was 
uplifted. 

Lost  was  the  din  of  life  that  stormed  and  roared 
in  the  roadways, 

Calm  were  the  grassy  fields,  a  lullaby  purred 
through  the  willows, 

And  overhead  the  night  was  illumined  with  flicker- 
ing beacons. 


IV. 


Often,  in  later  years,  allured  by  thy  strange  fascina- 
tion, 

Often  again  I  have  come,  with  feet  that  would  not 
turn  backward. 

Often  knelt  at  thy  feet,  and  sought  with  a  lover's 
persistence. 

Whether,  beneath  thy  dolorous  fugue,  one  promise 
was  whispered. 


H 


NJAGAKA. 


Hope  there  was  none  for  me  ;  august  was  the  deep 

diapason, 
But  't  was  the  moan  of  the  sea,  the  growl  of  the 

forest  unfeeling, 
Threat  of  the  sulphurous  skies,  that  when  they  are 

fevered  and  angry 
Volley  the  world  with  flame  and  curse   mankind 

with  their  laughter. 


V. 


THE   UPPER   RAPIDS. 


Still,  with  the  wonder  of  boyhood,  I  follow  the  race 
of  thy  Rapids, 

Sirens  that  dance,  and  allure  to  destruction,  —  now 
lurking  in  shadows, 

Skirting  the  level  stillness  of  pools  and  the  treach- 
erous shallows. 

Smiling  and  dimple  -  mouthed,  coquetting,  —  now 
modest,  now  forward  ; 


Tenderly  chanting,  and  such  the  thrall  of  the  weird 

incantation. 
Thirst  it  awakes  in  each  listener's  soul,  a  feverish 


longing. 


NIAGARA. 


IS 


Thoughts  all-absorbent,  a  torment  that  stings  and 
ever  increases, 

Burning  ambition  to  push  bare-breast  to  thy  peril- 
ous bosom. 

Thus,  in  some  midnight  obscure,  bent  down  by  the 

storm  of  temptation 
(So  hath  the  wind,  in  the  beechen  wood,  confided 

the  story), 
Pine-trees,  thrusting  their  way  and  trampling  down 

one  another, 
Curious,  lean  and  listen,  replying  in  sobs  and  in 

whispers ; 

Till  of   the   secret  possessed,  which   brings   sure 

blight  to  the  hearer 
(So  hath  the  wind,  in  the  beechen  wood,  confided 

the  story), 
Faltering,  they  stagger  brinkward,  —  clutch  at  the 

roots  of  the  grasses. 
Cry,  —  a  pitiful  cry  of  remorse,  —  and  plunge  down 

in  the  darkness. 


Art  thou  all-merciless  then,  —  a  fiend,  ever  fierce 

for  new  victims  ? 
Was  then  the  red-man  right  (as  yet  it  liveth  in 

legend), 


i6 


NIAGARA. 


That,  ere  each  twelvemonth  circles,  still   to  thy 

shrine  is  allotted 
Blood  of  one  human  heart,  as  sacrifice  due  and 

demanded  ? 

Butterflies  have  I  followed,  that  leaving  the  red-top 

and  clover. 
Thinking  a  wind-harp  thy  voice,  thy  froth  the  fresh 

whiteness  of  daisies, 
Ventured  too  close,  grew  giddy,  and  catching  cold 

drops  on  their  pinions, 
Balanced  —  but  vainly, —  and  falling,  their  scarlet 

was  blotted  forever. 


VI. 


THE   CATARACT. 

Still  to  thy  Fall  I  come  near,  as  unto  earth's  grand- 
est cathedral, 

Forehead  uncovered,  hands  down,  with  feet  that 
falter  beneath  me  ; 

Hearing  afar,  o'er  the  rustling  grass  and  the  rush 
of  the  river, 

Chorus  triumphant,  thy  trumpet  voice,  and  I  trem 
ble  with  weakness. 


NIAGARA. 


i; 


Tall  above  tower  and  tree  looms  thy  steeple  builded 
of  sunshine, 

Mystical  steeple,  white  like  a  cloud,  upyearning 
toward  heaven, 

Till  into  cloud-land  it  drifts,  uprolling  in  hill-tops 
and  headlands. 

Catches  the  glory  of  sunset,  then  pales  into  rose- 
tint  and  purple. 

Slowly,  through  gothic  aisles,  I  creep  to  the  steps 

of  thine  altar, 
Halfway  forgetting  thy  presence,  though  still  with 

each  step  I  draw  nearer. 
Halfway  forgetting  thy  voice,  so  far  it  sends  fancy 

awandering, 
Till,  with  a  sudden  ascent,  full-face  thou  standest 

before  me. 


Who,  upon  tiptoes  straining,  shall  snare  the  fleet 

course  of  the  comet ! 
Who  in  bright  pigments  shall  match  the  luminous 

sun-god  at  mid-day ! 
Who   shall   dare   picture   in  words   the   turbulent 

wrath  of  the  tempest ! 
Seeing,  I  can  but  stand  still,  with  finger  on  lip,  and 

keep  silent. 


^s^  18 


H%  -— 


^liri' 


y-  \NIAGARA, 


VII. 


fco-l  drifting  toward  us  approaches  a  curious  tangle 

of  something ! 
White  and  untillered  it  floats,  bewitching  the  sight, 

and  appearing 
Like  to  a  birchen  canoe,  a  virgin  crouched  pallid 

within  it. 
Hastening  with  martyr  zeal  to  solve  the  unriddled 

hereafter ! 


Slower  and  smoother  her  flight,  until  on  the  preci- 
pice pausing, 

Just  for  the  space  of  a  breath  the  dread  of  the 
change  seems  to  thrill  her ; 

Crossing  herself,  and  seeming  to  shudder,  she  lifts 
eyes  to  heaven,  — 

Sudden  a  mist  upwhirls  —  I  see  not — but  know 
all  is  over. 


Stoop  and  explore  the  void  where  this  vision  of 

fancy  hath  vanished  ! 
Torrents  of  green  and  blue  drench  down  the  dizzy 

escarpment, 


NIAGARA. 


19 


Fall  \n\o  scattered  flakes,  and  merge  into  fury  of 

snow-squalls  ; 
Crisp  like  glaciers  they  shatter,  then  smoke  in  the 

whirl  of  the  vortex. 

Stoop  and  look  down  !  and  read,  if  you  can,  the 

terrible  riddle  ! 
Nay !    the  secret  of  death  by  death's  eyes  alone 

can  be  fathomed  ; 
But  o'er  the  mystery  finished  is  fluttered  the  curtain 

Most  Holy, 
And  on  this  curtain  is  set  the  sign  of  redemption 

—  a  rainbow ! 

Symbol  of  hope  is  this,  or  merely  man's  hopeful 
invention  ? 

Thou  hast  no  answer  to  that,  beyond  this  dull  un- 
dertone moaning : 

"  Man  of  all  animate  things  the  noblest,  most 
meanly  ignoble. 

Smiling  only  to  tempt,  and  spoiling  whate'er  he 
embraces  !  " 


Is  then  thy  bow  we  clasp'd  as  pledge  of  a  promise 

unfailing. 
Naught  but  a  sun-dog  ferocious,  that  mouthing  the 

mariner's  noonday, 


\ 


20 


NIAGARA. 


Kisses  with  lying  lips  the  soft-sleeping  clouds  of 
midsummer, 

Only  to  taunt  him,  lulled  by  the  calm,  with  an  am- 
bushed tornado  ? 


Faith  in  thee  have  I  none  !  I  lift  spent  eyes,  and 
despairing, 

Set  my  teeth  in  defiance.  Fate,  then,  the  father  of 
all  things  ! 

I  but  a  victim  moth,  to  be  snatched  by  a  merciless 
current. 

Dragged  by  cold  eddies  down,  to  be  lost  and  for- 
gotten forever ! 

Why  then  this  pilgrimage  here  ?  God  knows  no 
willful  self-seeking 

Lent  us  this  restless  life  ;  and  no  faint-heart  or  re- 
bellion 

Gives  us  this  fear  to  lie  down,  and  rest  in  the  slum- 
berous dreamland ! 

—  Answer,  if  answer  thou  hast !  Answer,  Niagara  ! 
answer ! 


Weary  with  waiting,  we  climb  to  the  hill-tops  near- 
est to  heaven. 

Find  only  floating  fogs,  and  air  too  meagre  to 
nourish ; 


NIAGARA. 


21 


ing  clouds  of 
,  with  an  am- 

lent  eyes,  and 

the  father  of 

i  a  merciless 

lost  and  for- 

d  knows  no 
t-heart  or  re- 
in the  slum- 
2r,  Niagara ! 

1-tops  near- 
meagre   to 


Seeking  the  depths  of  the  sea,  we  drop  our  plum- 
mets and  feel  them, 

Draw  them  in  empty,  or  yellowed  with  clay,  that 
melts  and  tells  nothing  ; 

Forests  we  thread,  wide  prairies  unfenced,  and 
drenched  morasses. 

Strike,  with  the  fervor  of  youth,  to  the  heart  of  the 
tenantless  deserts. 

Turn  every  boulder,  still  hoping  to  find  beneath 
them  some  prophet,  — 

Find  only  thistles  unsunn'd,  green  sloth,  and  pas- 
sionless creatures. 

Youth  flitted  by  us,  we  faint,  then  sink  in  the  ruts 

of  our  fathers ; 
Shift  as  we  may  with  the  old  beliefs,  and  beat  on 

our  bosoms ; 
Seek  less  and  hunger  less  keenly,  still  sorrow  for 

self  and  for  others, 
Striving,  by  travail  and  tears,  life's  deeper  meaning 

to  strangle  ; 

Drag  from  sunset  to  sunset,  too  fainting  to  fear  for 

the  morrow. 
Suffer,  complain  of  our  loads,  but  catch  at  their 

withes  as  they  leave  us, 


( 


22 


NIAGARA. 


Letting   the  song-birds  escape,  perceiving  not  till 

they  've  fluttered,  — 
Bitterly  weeping  then,  as  we  watch  them  die  in  the 

distance. 


Struggling,  we  snatch  at  straws ;  call  out,  expecting 


no  answer ; 


Pray,   but  without   any   faith ;  grow   laggard  and 

laugh  at  our  anguish  ; 
Sin,  and  with  wine-cup  deadened,  scoff  at  the  dread 

of  hereafter,  — 
And,  because  all  seems  lost,  besiege  Death's  door" 

way  with  gladness. 

Better  w-e.  had  not  been,  for  what  is  the  goal  of  such 

striving  ? 
Bubbles  that  glitter  perchance,  to  burst  in  thin  air 

as  they  glitter ! 
Comets  that  cleave  the  night,  to  leave  the  night  but 

the  darker ! 
Smudge  that  bursts  into  flame,  but  only  in  smoke 

to  be  smothered  ! 


Out  of  the  gifts  of  our  spring,  that  only  is  beautiful 

counted 
Which  with  the  day-dawn  breaks  bud,  and  dies  ere 

the  dew-drops  have  left  it ; 


reiving  not  till 


NIAGARA. 


23 


Smiles   there   no  healihfuller  clime,  where  forms 

that  are  fair  never  perish, 
But  in  a  life-giving  ether  grow  fairer  with  ripening 

seasons  ? 


Iroquois  god,  I  adore  thee,  because  thou  art  lasting 
and  mighty. 

Turn  and  gaze  at  thee,  going,  as  on  an  all-marvel- 
ous vision. 

Dread  thee,  thou  art  so  serene,  —  but  hate  thee 
with  hatred  most  bitter, 

Taunter  of  all  who  dabble  thy  foam,  and  think  to 
discover. 

VIII. 

THE  GORGE. 


'Neath  the  abyss  lies  the  Valley,  a  valley  of  dark- 
ness, —  a  hades. 

Where  the  spent  stream,  as  it  strives,  seeks  only  an 
end  to  its  anguish  ; 

Who  shall  its  fastnesses  fathom,  or  tell  what  wrecks 
they  envelop  ? 

Here  'neath  the  tides  of  time,  life's  remnants 
await  resurrection. 


h 


24 


NIAGARA. 


Deep  is  the  way,  and  weary  the  way,  while  lofty 
above  it 

Frowns,  upon  either  hand,  a  cliff  sheer-shouldered 
or  beetling, 

Holding  in  durance  forever  the  course  of  the  will- 
broken  exile, 

Blighting  all  hope  of  return,  should  it  pant  for  the 
flowering  pastures. 


But  from  the  brinks  lean  down  a  few  slender  birches 
and  cedars. 

Dazed  by  the  depth  and  the  gloom  of  the  channel 
resounding  beneath  them  ; 

Here  campanulas,  too,  which  lurk  wherever  is  dan- 
ger, 

Stoop  with  a  smile  of  hope,  reflecting  the  blue  of 
the  heavens. 


Fleeter  still  flies  the  flood,  up-heaping  its  scum  at 
the  centre. 

Dragging  the  tides  from  the  shores  to  leave  them  a 
hand-breadth  the  lower  \ 

While,  like  a  serpent  of  yellow,  the  spume  crooks 
down  to  the  Whirlpool, 

Trails  with  a  zigzagging  motion  down  to  the  hide- 
ous Whirlpool. 


NIAGARA. 


25 


IX. 

I 

THE   WHIRLrOOL. 

ficre  is  the  end  of  all  things,  of  all  things  another 

beginning. 
Here  the  long  valley  crooks,  and  the  flight  of  the 

river  is  broken  ; 
Round  is  the  cavernous  pool,  and  in  at  one  side 

leaps  the  river. 
Headlong  it  plunges,  despairing,  and  beats  on  the 

bars  of  its  prison  ; 

Beats,  and   runs   wildly  from  wall   to   wall,  then 

strives  to  recover, 
Beats  on   another  still,  and  around   the  circle  is 

carried, 
Jostled  from  shoulder  to  shoulder,  till  losing  its 

galloping  motion. 
Dizzily  round  it  swirls,  and  is  dragged  toward  the 

hideous  Whirlpool. 


Lofty  the  rock-walls  loom,  the  narrow  outlet  con- 
cealing, 

Loftier  still  stoop  pines,  that  shut  out  the  pity  of 
sunlight  j 


26 


NIAGARA. 


I 


Whilst  above  both  a  shadow,  as  if  from  the  wings 

of  a  vulture, 
Sheds  over  all   below  a  pall  more  spectral  than 

midnight. 

Up  from  the  seething  witch-pot  arises  a  sulphurous 

vapor, 
Smoke-clouds  slow-winged  drift  hither  and  hence, 

revealing,  now  hiding  ; 
Whilst  from  the  hollow  depths,  that  hiss  from  some 

under-world  fervor. 
Bubble,  in  torrents  black,  the  refuse  of  wreck  and 

corruption. 

Round  sweeps  the  horrible  maelstrom,  and  into  the 

w^hirl  of  its  vortex 
Circle  a  broken  boat,  an  oar-blade,  things  without 

number ; 
Striving,    they  shove   one   another,  and   seem   to 

hurry,  impatient 
To  measure   the  shadowy  will-be,  and  seek  from 

their  torment  a  respite. 


Logs  that  have  leapt  the  Falls  and  swum  unseen 
'neath  the  current, 

Here  are  restored  again,  and  weird  is  their  resur- 
rection ; 


NIAGARA. 


27 


'Cs  a  sulphurous 


-  of  wreck  and 


[ere  like  straws  they  are  snapt,  and  grinding  like 

millstones  together, 
Chafing  and  splintering  their  mates,  they  wade  in 

their  deepening  ruins ; 

'ill,  without  hope,  on  tiptoe  they  rise,  lips  shriv- 
eled and  speechless, 

seeing  sure  fate  before  them  that  tightens  its  toils 
to  encnare  them ; 

[ollow  the  hell-hole  gapes,  and  ravenously  it  re- 
ceives them,  — 

ill  that  is  left  is  a  sigh,  and  the  echoes  of  that  are 
soon  strangled. 


X. 


3wum  unseen 


CONCLUSION. 

This  then,  can  this  be  the  end  ?  and  death  but  a 
blotting  forever  ? 

Turning,  a  bird  was  beside  me,  and  striking  a  deli- 
cate measure. 

Clearly  it  whistled,  —  a  herald-like  strain,  th- 1  chal- 
lenged a  hearer. 

Sung  —  't  was  a  broken  song,  —  and  stopping,  far 
distant  it  fluttered. 


28 


NIAGARA. 


"  Seek  within  ! "  was  its  message,  "  without  is  oi 

reflection ; 
Sinless  are   nature's  forms,  and  therefore  utter] 

soulless  j 
Sin  may  debase  thee,  make  thee  the  servant 

Fate  and  of  Nature,  — 
But  to  thy  height  arise,  and  thou  art  of  all  thing] 

creator. 


"  That  alone  is  august  which  is  gazed  upon  by  the] 

noble. 
That  alone  is  gladsome  which  eyes  full  of  gladness] 

discover ; 
Night-time  is  but  a  name  for  the  darkness  man 

nurtures  within  him. 
Storm  but  a  symbol  of  sin  in  a  soul  that  is  stained 

and  unshriven. 


"  Act  but  thine  own  true  part,  as  He  who  created 
hath  purposed. 

Then  are  the  waters  thine,  the  winds,  all  forces  of 
nature ; 

Thine  too  the  seasons,  their  fruits,  which  they  red- 
den but  to  surrender, 

Thine  too  the  years,  and  thine  all  time,  —  ever- 
lasting and  fearless ! " 


?e,  "without  is  onlj 
d  therefore  iitterlvl 
lee  the  servant 


^  art  of  all  thinm 

o"! 


jazecl  upon  by  the 
Js  full  of  gladness^ 
le  darkness  man! 
Lil  that  is  stained 


PART    SECOND. 


PEN     PICTURES. 


He  who  created 
ids,  all  forces  of 
which  they  red- 
time,  —  ever- 


SANDY  HOOK. 


White  sand  and  cedars  ;  cedars,  sand  ; 
Light-houses  here  and  there  ;  a  strand 
Strewn  o'er  with  driftwood  ;  tangled  weeds  ; 
A  squad  of  fish-hawks  poised  above 
The  nets,  too  anxious-eyed  to  move ; 
Flame-flowering  cactus  ;  winged  seeds, 
That  on  a  sea  of  sunshine  lie 
Unfanned,  save  by  some  butterfly ; 
A  sun  now  reddening  toward  the  west ;  — 
And  under  and  through  all  one  hears 
That  mellow  voice,  old  as  the  years, 
The  waves'  low  monotone  of  unrest. 
So  wanes  the  summer  afternoon 
In  drowsy  stillness,  and  the  moon 
Appears  ;  when  sudden,  round  about 
The  wind-cocks  wheel,  —  hoarse  fog-horns  shout 
A  warning,  and  in  gathering  gloom 
Against  the  sea's  white  anger  loom 
Tall  shapes  of  wreckers,  torch  in  hand. 
Rattling  their  life-boats  down  the  sand  ! 
[Main  Light,  July,  1879. 


32 


THE 


SHEPHExriESS. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS. 


And'n''  °f  ''"''''"  'S^'"^'  =^  yellow  sky  • 
And  on  ,ts  top,  as  on  a  buttress  hi.h  ^  ' 
A  shape,  a  moving  form  f^^.         ■     ' 

With  hands  UDlift^r.7    ;•  ""^  '°  "=k 

uplifted  leading  home  the  flock.    ' 

As  on  the  living  picture  wends  its  wav 

A  silhouette  upon  the  fading  day  ^' 

The  iigure  stops,  and  one  b^  one  aright 

"'^  ''-'  '-^  'y'  ^"^  <^oL:;;To,  Sight 

o"w:trfa:thrtrrh^ 

^;^;e  is  left,  and  ^^^^IZS"^:^^  ''^°- 
Then  purple  twilight  covers  up  thetd. 
Edinburgh,  Scotland. 


THE  HARPER. 


31 


THE   HARPER. 


No  wonder,  harp,  thou  likest  well  to  lie 
[Thus  nestled  to  her  bosom  ;  —  so  would  I  ! 
No  wonder  thy  soft,  rapturous  undertone, 
When   her  flushed  cheek  creeps   nearer   to  thine 

own ! 
No  wonder  her  white  buskin  and  lithe  thigh 
Thrill  thee  from  head  to  heel  with  half-drawn  sigh; 
And  that  whene'er  her  hands  caress  thy  breast, 
Thou  sendest  forth  a  shudder  of  unrest ! 
No  wonder  that  whene'er  thou  leanest  nearer, 
Thou  singest  ever  louder,  ever  clearer,  — 
Now  laughing,  while  a  smile  lights  up  her  lips, 
Now  weeping,  while  a  tear-drop  from  her  slips  ; 
And  then,  from  very  ecstasy,  again 
Breakest  to  laughter  —  half  delight,  half  pain, 
Which  ripples  to  each  listener  and  awakes 
That  boyhood  glee  that  Time  too  soon  o'ertakes,  — 
Lut  then,  like  all  our  glee,  before  it  flies 
Strikes  on  the  thorn  beneath  the  rose,  and  dies. 
No  wonder,  passionate  harp,  thou  lov'st  to  lie 
Half  buried  on  her  bosom  ; —  so  would  I  ! 
3 


34 


BATTLE  OF  THE  FORD. 


BATTLE  OF  THE   FORD. 

[Impression  left  after  listening  to  story  narrated  by  a  French 

cavalry  officer.] 

"  Far  off  the  eye  could  catch  the  sea  aglimmer 
Against  the  west,  —  now  but  a  shimmer,  — 
And  tremulous,  with  each  wink  its  line  grew  dim- 
mer ; 

"  Till  now  a  massed-up  blur  alone  remains. 
Stabbed  through  by  lightning ;  pommel  and  reins 
Blooded  with  sword-thrusts  and  long  trickling  stains. 

"  Keen  was  the  crackle  of  the  steady  thunder, 

Shriller  the  screaming  shot,  and  under 

My  horse's  hoofs  they  tore  the  world  asunder. 

"  The  lightnings  keen  !  but  just  above  the  bridge 

Flamed  a  live  furnace,  and  the  ridge 

Of  tents  ran  fire,  even  to  the  river's  edge. 

"  Its  current,  curdled,  dammed  the  purple  tide 

With  wrecks  -,  the  torrent,  stupefied. 

Shrank  from  the  heroes  who  down-dropping  died. 


wmftstmsmmm^ssmam 


rated  by  a  French 


DEAD   CEDARS. 


35 


Night  was  disguised,  an  unsunned  monster  day  ; 
And  daybreak,  coming,  snatched  the  gray 
Smoke  muftle,  and  close  hid  her  face  away." 

Tours,  France. 


DEAD   CEDARS. 


By  noonday,  stranded  skeletons  they  seem, 

Of  behemoths  borne  from  some  far,  tropic  stream, 

In  some  bright-blossoming  period  of  old  ; 
By  moonlight,  spectres,  with  long  ghostly  hands. 
Trenching  a  magic  circle  in  the  sands, 

Lest  stumbling  footstep  fire  the  night  with  gold. 


36 


COLUMBUS, 


COLUMBUS. 

[For  title-page  of  Irving's  "  Columbus."] 

He  failed.     He  reached  to  grasp  Hesperides, 
To  track  the  footsteps  of  the  sun,  that  flies 
Toward    some    far-western    couch,    and   watch  it 

rise,  — 
But  fell  on  unknown  sand-reefs,  chains,  disease. 

He  won.     With  splendid  daring,  from  the  seas' 
Hard,  niggard  fist  he  plucked  the  prize, 
And  gave  a  virgin  world  to  Europe's  eyes, 
Where  gold-dust  choked  the  streams,  and  spice  the 
breeze. 

He  failed  fulfillment  of  the  task  he  planned. 
And  dropped  a  weary  head  on  empty  hand. 
Unconscious  of  the  vaster  deed  he  'd  done ; 
But  royal  legacy  to  Ferdinand 
He  left :  a  key  to  doorways  gilt  with  sun,  — 
And  proudest  title  of  "World-father"  won  ! 


THE  MUMMY  AND    THE  ROSE, 


17 


JS."J 

t  /lies 

^»<J   watch  it 

">  disease, 
t/ie  seas' 

■s, 

^  spice  WiQ 

ed, 


THE   MUMMY  AND   THE   ROSE. 

(On  picture  by  F.  S.  Church,  representing  a  mummy's  head 
contrasted  with  a  rose  in  bloom.J 

Grim  contrast !     'Gainst   a  background  weird   as 

night, 
A  mummy's  head,  with  smirking  jaws  apart. 
And  cerements  of  coarse  linen  clasping  tight 
Its  snaky  locks,  that  seem  to  writhe  and  dart. 

Lefore  it,  smiling,  flushed  with  recent  flight 
(For  Morning  wore  it  near  her  throbbing  heart), 
Each  crumpled  petal  dewy  yet,  and  bright, 
A  half-blown  rose  !  —  Thy  pulses  well  may  start  I 

Profane,  almost,  the  fancy  thus  confessed  : 
This  fragile  thing,  like  gauntlet  girt  with  lace. 
Flung  in  the  withered  cheek  of  Time,  —  sad  jest ; 
And  sorrier  still,  that  this  lean,  lecherous  face 
So  close  to  blushing  innocence  should  slip,  — 
Dead  Past  and  Maiden  Present  lip  to  lip  ! 


3« 


M^ilD  MARIE. 


MAID   MARIE. 

Soft  sunset  kissed  the  castle  court, 

And  kissed  the  curtains  where  she  lay; 
Listless  she  looked,  while  white  as  milk 

Her  doves  came  hovering  o'er  the  bay; 
On  mantel,  bench,  and  bed  they  sat, 

On  cornice-mold  and  carved  stairway, 
And  cooing  sadly,  waited  still ;  — 

Done  was  the  sweet  June  day. 


Treading  their  perch  with  restless  feet, 

Sore  grieved  each  feathered  carrier  grew ; 
Then  came  the  whir  of  their  countless  wings 

(Save  one  that  to  her  bosom  drew). 
While  through  the  lattice  and  low  porch. 

Afar  into  the  heavens  blue, 
Where  past  the  clouds  a  pathway  led, 

Bearing  her  soul  they  flew. 


BBWM—WIW 


THE  MANOR  LORD. 


39 


THE   MANOR   LORD. 

Beside  the  landsman  knelt  a  dame, 

And  slowly  pushed  the  pages  o'er ; 
Still  by  the  hearthfire's  spending  flame 

She  waited,  while  a  hollow  roar 
Came  from  the  chimney,  and  the  breath 

Of  twice  seven  hounds  upon  the  floor ; 
And  save  the  old  man's  labored  moan, 

The  nijrht  had  no  sound  more. 


The  fire  flickered  ;  with  a  start 

The  master  hound  upflung  his  head  ; 
Sudden  he  whined,  when  with  one  spring 

Each  hunter  bounded  from  his  bed,  — 
And  through  rent  blind  and  bolted  door 

All  voiceless  every  creature  fled  ; 
The  blinking  watcher  closed  her  book  : 

"  Amen,  our  lord  is  dead  !  " 


f^m 


wmi 


40 


TI/£   THREE  POPLARS. 


THE  THREE   POPLARS. 

A   PICTURE   FROM    NORMANDY. 

Three  of  them  —  lithe  Lombard  poplars  — 

Stand  half  wading  in  the  brook, 
And  stoop  to  hold  it  like  a  mirror, 

O'er  which  they  lean  and  look. 

Lonely,  maybe  —  not  unlikely ! 

Level  is  that  Norman  reach  ; 
Full  three  good  leagues  it  w^tward  stretches, 

Then  dips  into  sand-beach.- 


Far  to  southward,  far  to  northward, 
Shine  the  grain-fields,  gold  and  green. 

That  pant  beneath  the  summer  noonday ; 
The  Vire  road  shines  between. 


Poppies,  red  like  living  embers. 
Burn  among  the  ripened  wheat ; 

And  butterflies,  above  the  corn-flowers. 
Like  sparks  fly,  vivid,  fleet. 


THE   THREE  POPLARS, 

Far  to  eastward,  the  horizon 

Lifts  into  a  ridge  of  blue  — 
There  lie  the  hills,  and  just  below  them 

A  minster  looms  up  too. 

Now  the  noon,  with  poppies  drunken, 
Down  its  heavy  head  hath  laid  ; 

Barley  reapers,  prone,  are  napping 
Beneath  their  sheaves  new-made. 

And  the  three  trees,  dozing,  dreaming, 

Taste  again  Italian  skies. 
Flooding  the  land  so  full  of  sunlight 

That  every  shadow  dies. 

Suddenly  there  com.  5  a  whisper 
That  the  sea,  portentous,  sends  ; 

The  stillness  all  at  once  grows  solemn  — 
A  hush  of  death  descends. 

Dim  upon  the  far  horizon, 

Lo,  the  wheat-fields  shimmer  white  ; 
They  lift  and  drop,  they  flash  and  darken. 

Like  billowy  seas  of  light. 

Vineyards  sway,  and  bean  and  hop-fields 
Kneel  before  some  unseen  power ; 


41 


42  THE    THREE  POPLARS. 

A  horseman,  posting  do  .vn  the  highway, 
Builds  up  a  dusty  tower. 

Swift,  across  the  meadows  sweeping, 
Nears  the  tide  and  neareth  still ; 

It  smites  the  brook,  and  breaks  its  mirror. 
It  is  the  wind's  fierce  will ! 


Just  behind,  rain  chariots  follow. 
Heavy-wheeled  they  rush  and  roll, 

Approaching  ever  nearer,  nearer,  — 
Fear  lends  the  trees  a  soul. 

Wheat,  down-thrown,  is  trampled  under 

As  though  smitten  by  a  flail ; 
And  wild,  with  slim  white  arms  embracing. 

The  poplars  turn  death-pale. 


THE  DREAM  OF   THE  STORK, 


43 


) 


THE   DREAM  OF  THE   STORK. 

[While  visiting  Strasbourg  I  occupied  a  sky-parlor  in  a  hotel, 
where  my  nearest  neighbor  was  a  stork,  domiciled  on  one  of 
the  chimneys  of  the  opposite  house.  During  the  day  it  occa- 
sionally dropped  into  the  streets  and  court-yards,  but  with  the 
coming  of  twilight  it  could  always  be  seen  outlined  against 
the  western  sky,  —  a  spectral  shape,  poised  with  one  leg  upon 
the  house-top,  and  with  head  depressed,  as  if  wrapt  in  con- 
templation. The  dream  of  this  weird  bird,  as  nearly  as  I 
could  make  it  out,  was  something  as  follows.] 


"  Warder  of  Zimmerman's  house  "  the  goodfolk 
of  Strasbourg  have  clept  me. 

Eldest  of  all  their  storks,  I  restfully  drowse  on  my 
roof-tree, 

Folded  about  by  twilight,  with  all  the  heavens  en- 
shrouded, 

Save  to  the  uttermost  west,  where  a  luminous  rib- 
bon still  lingers. 

And  as  I  drowse  and  dream,  the  dusky  present  for- 
getting, 


44 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK, 


Lo  1  the  gates  of  the  past  swing  open  on  whispering 
hinges, 

While,  like  a  wrack  of  wind-scud,  swift  on  the  heels 
of  each  other 

Flying  out  of  the  gloom,  across  the  low,  lurid  hori- 
zon, 

Struggle  in  weird  procession  the  ghosts  of  my  for- 
mer companions  ! 


Memnon  of  Thebes  I  see,  saluting  the  daydawn 

with  music. 
Calling  with  magic  voice  to  Ra,  far-throned  on  the 

mountains. 
Saying  :  "  Arise,  All-father  !     Behold  how  parched 

are  our  pastures  ! 
Thrill  with  thy  passionate  kiss  the  proud  Abyssin- 
ian snow-tops ! 
Quicken  with  wonder  of  life   the  wombs  of   the 

fountains,  long  barren. 
Breathe  on  the  shrunken  breasts  of  the  cataracts, 

—  breathe,  and  restore  them  ! 
Ra,  have  pity  upon  us,  and  seeing  our  grief  and 

repentance. 
Lift  to  our  thirsting  lips  the  bowl  of  thine  infinite 

bounty ! " 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK. 


45 


Laughter  of  waves  I  hear,  as  Memnon's  prayer 
being  ended, 

Caught  by  a  thousand  tongues  the  echoing  answer 
returneth  ; 

Plash  of  the  fish  I  hear,  as  the  tide  grows  clearer 
and  colder ! 

Winnow  of  flickering  wings,  the  rustle  of  reed  and 
of  bulrush. 

Breezes  stirring  the  palms,  the  behemoth  plunging 
and  trampling. 

Ripple  of  rising  waves  and  gossip  of  murmuring 
voices 

Whispering  each  to  the  other,  "  Is  not  the  Ibis  be- 
hindhand ? 

All  things  else  being  ready,  wherefore  comes  not 
the  Ibis  ? " 

Then  as  they  speak  he  comes,  the  herald  of  bloom 
and  of  harvest. 

White  as  the  lilies  that  fringe  the  banks  of  the  fast- 
swelling  river ; 

Sailing  with  princely  air,  among  the  lotus  he  set- 
tles, 

Pushing  aside  the  lilies  ;  and  now  with  one  shout 
of  laughter. 

Leap  with  a  joyous  .bound  the  plumed  and  gallop- 
ing billows 


46 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK. 


Over  the  shrinking  dykes ;  and  wide  through  the 

meadows  unclouded 
Runs  the  rich   bounty  of  Zefa,  and  long-rainless 

meadows  are  watered. 

Cheops  I  see,  and  Cephrenes,  their  shoulders 

crimsoned  with  sun-burst, 
Drifts  from  a  by-gone  age  left  beached  on  the  sand- 
driven  present. 
Looming  serene,  unaltered,  above  the  surge  of  the 

ages. 
Needle-like  shafts  I  see,  writ  o'er  by  Time's  finger 

untiring, 
Signs  from  that  halcyon  age  whereby  my  soul  was 

once  nurtured. 
Which,  having  served  its  time,  to  newer  forms  was 

transmitted. 
Nobler  or  grosser,  happy  or  hard,  as   Ra  in  his 

wisdom 
Found  for  the  ultimate  good,  that  the  world  might 

work  its  redemption. 


Smilest  thou  in  thy  dreams  ?     May  thy  sleep,  my 
brother,  be  restful  j 
'Neath  these  bird  feathers  of  mine,  like  thee  a  spirit 
I  cherish, 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK. 


47 


Kindled  by  Helios'  torch,  that  hath  neither  end  nor 

beginning, 
Being  a  part  of  that  presence,  the  same  All-father, 

All-mother,  — 
Being  a  part  of  the  God  that  hath  neither  end  nor 

beginning. 
Lo  !  my  spirit,  like  thine,  once  lodged  in  a  man- 
child's  bosom, 
Slowly  grew  with  his  growth,  was  filled  with  hunger 

and  yearning. 
Stricken  by  human  sorrow,  striving,  oft  foiled  and 

oft  fretted  ; 
Till  to  full  manhood  I  grew,  a  bearded  and  priestly 

Egyptian, 
Who,  'tween  the  pilons  of  Thebes,  the  brazen  sis- 

trum  resounding, 
Or  through   its   populous   courtways   bearing  my 

scrolls  of  papyrus. 
Walked  and  was  voiceless  as  now,  perceiving  all 

things,  but  in  silence. 

Trust  it  not  to  thy  tongue,  but  this  is  my  day- 
dream mysterious. 
Hence  seek  I  lofty  sites,  that  offer  the  broadest 
horizons ; 


mmm 


48 


T//E  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK, 


Hence  do  I  sit  in  stillness,  pursuing  the  old  medi- 
tations, 
Loving  the  warmth  of  thy  chimney  that  tells  of  a 

home  and  a  fireside, 
Loving  thy  bells,  thy  streets,  the  rumble  of  traffic 

and  fashion ; 
Yet  ever  lonely,  estranged,  and  longing  to  doff  these 

disguises. 
Summon  my  human  voice,  for  ages  tongue-tied  and 

silent. 
And  in  my  panther  robe,  slow-paced,  fork-bearded, 

and  kindly. 
Drop   to   thy  latticed   porch,  —  and   drawing  thy 

children  about  me. 
Cull  from  my  curious  lore  replies  to  their  questions 

untiring. 
Hence,  with  the  waning  sun  and  the  earliest  chal- 
lenge of  winter, 
Longing  I  southward  look  and  restlessly  rustle  my 

pinions. 
Drawn  toward   my  haunts  of  old,  though   fireless 

long,  and  forsaken. 
Drawn  toward  familiar  skies  and  toward  the  tombs 

of  my  fathers. 
Where,   in   the  starless   depths   of   a   nether  and 

honeycombed  city, 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK. 


49 


Sealed  in  its  painted  cradle  and  wrapt  in  its  herbs 
and  fine  linen, 

Lies,  long  tenantkss,  cold,  the  cage  that  once  pris- 
oned my  spirit. 


ions 


Hence,  with  the  morrow  morn,  ere  the  minster 
bells  have  awakened, 

Leagues  away  will  I  be,  perceiving  upon  the  horizon, 

Dimly,  the  film  of  blue  that  tells  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean ; 

And  when  thy  babes  from  their  nests  slip  forth  to 
the  wind-shaken  casement. 

Barren  my  nest  will  be,  and  sadly  through  slumber- 
ing Strasbourg 

Lip  unto  lip  will  reecho  the  tidings  of  deep  lamen- 
tation : 

"  Lo  !  the  storks  have  flown  southward  !  Empty 
their  nests  on  our  roof-trees  ! 

Bitter  the  air  hath  grown  ;  our  summer  hath  with 
them  flown  southward ! 

Lo !  the  north  is  obscured,  and  Winter,  unstalling 
his  legions, 

Wreath'd  by  his  stallions'  breath  and  smoke  of  his 
axle-trees  flaming. 

Leaps  to  their  front,  scythe-charioted,  and  rides  to 
besiege  us." 


50 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  STORK. 


Lock  then  thy  casements,  and  feed  fresh  logs  to 

thy  hungering  chimneys ; 
Now  is  love's  harvest  to  homes  where  closer  the 

hearts  cling  together. 
Live  then  from  day  to  day  remembering  that  I, 

who  forget  not, 
Wearing  beneath  my  wings  reward  both  for  good 

and  for  evil, 
Will,  if  thy  scroll  be  stainless,  flutter  again  to  thy 

roof-tree, 
Bringing,  at  each  return,  from  hand  of  Hathor  the 

Golden, 
Meed  beyond  earthly  price,  the  gifts  of  love  and 

contentment  1 


r    ' 


)gs  to 
T  the 
lat  I, 
good 
o  thy 
»r  the 
!  and 


PART   THIRD. 
SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


t 


THE  TZIGANS'  POT. 


I. 

I  AM  the  Tzigans'  pot ; 
I  have  come  from  a  far-away  no-man's-land, 
Hung  heavy  in  many  a  swarthy  hand, 
The  homeless  mate  of  a  hearthless  race, 
Who,  as  they  wander  from  place  to  place, 
Still  cling  to  their  Tzigans*  pot. 

II. 

I  am  the  Tzigans'  pot ; 
When  daylight  fades  into  dusk  and  damp, 
I  help  the  womenfolk  che^r  the  camp 
With  my  brushwood  fire,  whose  friendly  glow 
Soon  brightens  the  boughs  and  the  faces  below 
That  circle  the  bubbling  pot. 

III. 

I  am  the  Tzigans'  pot ; 
That  many  a  boisterous  noon  hath  known, 
When  bitter  the  sleety  blasts  have  blown, 


54 


THE    TZIGANS'  POT. 


When  frosty  feet  have  crept  close  to  mine, 
And  children's  voices,  chilled  to  a  whine, 
Have  blest  the  warm  Tzigans'  pot. 

IV. 

I  am  a  Tzigans'  pot, 
And  dreary  daybreaks  remember  too, 
When  mouths  were  many  and  leeks  were  few  ; 
But  never,  while  1  'd  a  gourdful  still. 
Was  any  who  hungered  refused  his  fill 
By  the  rover,  the  Tzigans'  pot. 


i 


LONGING. 


55 


LONGING. 

I  HEAR  in  the  twitter  of  birds  her  song, 
I  hear  her  step  in  the  rustling  grass,  ' 

Her  laugh  on  the  evening  breeze,  —  and  I  long 
To  see  my  Margaret  pass. 

I  see  her  eyes  in  the  sparkling  dew, 

Her  hair  in  the  tasseled  corn,  soft  fanned, 

Her  form  in  the  drifting  cloud,  —  and  I  long 
To  hold  my  Margaret's  hand. 

I  feel  her  pulse  in  the  river's  flow. 

In  the  summer  rain,  that  drips  and  drips, 

Her  breath  on  the  perfumed  breeze,  —  and  I  long 
To  taste  my  Margaret's  lips  I 


I 


56 


YESTERDAY. 


YESTERDAY. 

While  King  Karl  at  midnight  feasted, 
Sudden,  springing  from  his  chair, 

With  clenched  hand  he  smote  his  forehead, 
Wailing,  "  Lost !  beyond  repair  !  " 


"Nay,  my  lord,"  his  courtiers  answered, 
"  Do  but  name  your  royal  will. 
Serried  spears  and  flashing  banners 
Shall  command  the  Meuse  stand  still !  " 


I 


"  Nay  again  !  "  the  pale  king  stammered, 
While  still  clanged  the  cloister  bell, 

'  Lost,  beyond  all  snares  most  cunning  ! 
Hear'st  thou  not  its  good-bye  knell  ? 

"  All  my  bow-men  and  my  stallions, 
All  my  fleet  of  beaked  ships, 
Powerless  are  to  fetch  or  find  it 
When,  as  now,  the  treasure  slips ; 


YESTERDA  Y. 


57 


"  All  the  marble  in  my  quarries, 
All  my  barley,  sack  on  sack, 
All  my  crowns  of  crusted  jewels 
Cannot  buy  the  bounty  back  !  " 


r 


58 


WYNHILDA. 


WYNHILDA. 


I. 


"  Thou  shalt  not  whimper,  daughter  mine  ! 

No  selfish  season  this  for  sighs  ! 
There  are  kine  to  milk,  and  paths  to  be  digged, 

And  the  hind  —  hear  how  it  grieves  and  cries  ! 
Fresh  snow  on  the  roof-tree  lieth  thick, 

Still  heavy  the  drifts  weigh  down  the  skies ; 
This  be  a  day  to  do  and  dare,  — 

Then  up,  Wynhilda,  —  dry  thine  eyes  !  '* 

II. 

"  It  's  not  from  the  handwork  I  hold  back, 
It 's  not  for  frost  I  fret  and  weep  ; 
My  fingers  are  willing,  —  but  faith  grows  faint,  — 
O  prithee,  mother,  let  me  sleep !  " 


Pi' 


III. 


"  Weak  words,  thy  words,  Wynhilda  mine  ! 

These  days,  bear-fierce,  must  hearts  be  dead ; 
Though  Edwald  sleep  face-down  to-night, 
And  firebrand  show  his  bosom  red 


WYNHILDA. 


59 


With  axe  and  war-bill,  vain  be  tears  ! 

This  morn  's  no  morn  to  hang  the  head  ; 
Our  clansmen's  woe  is  our  common  woe,  — 

And  death  were  his  proudest  marriage-bed  !  " 


IV. 


"  Nay,  stay  thy  chiding,  mother  mine  ! 

I  Ve  flown  this  night  to  the  field,  rock-girt ; 
I  weep,  but  not  for  Edwald  slain,  — 
A  caitiff  he  skulked,  alone  unhurt  I  '* 


';■ 


6o 


ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 


ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 

There  have  been  nobler  days,  my  friends, 

And  ruddier  skies  than  ours, 
When  men  wrought  deeds,  but  God  the  ends, 

And  faiths  grew  into  powers. 

There  have  been  loftier  stations  too, 
When  youths  wore  souls  of  men. 

Because  they  had  great  deeds  to  do,  — 
Greatness  was  goodness  then. 

And  prouder  destinies  have  been. 
When  truth  was  saved  from  harm, 

Smitten,  the  miracles  of  sin 
By  man's  God-muscled  arm. 

Yet  epochs,  stations,  destinies 

Are  not  mere  births  of  time  ; 
Sublimely  do  what  in  us  lies  : 

This  is  to  be  sublime  ! 


SCARRED. 


6i 


SCARRED. 

Far  nobler  the  sword  that  is  nicked  and  worn, 
Far  fairer  the  flag  that  is  grimy  and  torn, 
Than  when,  to  the  battle,  fresh  they  were  borne. 

He  was  tried  and  found  true  ;  he  stood  the  test ; 
'Neath  whirlwinds  of  doubt,  when  all  the  rest 
Crouched  down  and  submitted,  he  fought  best. 

There  are  wounds  on  his  breast  that  can  never  be 

healed, 
There  are  gashes  that  bleed,  and  may  not  be  sealed. 
But  wounded  and  gashed,  he  won  the  field. 

And  others  may  dream  in  their  easy-chairs, 

And  point  their  white  hands  to  the  scars  he  bears. 

But  the  palm  and  the  laurel  are  his  —  not  theirs ! 


62 


DAISIES. 


DAISIES. 

Beautiful  daisies ! 
Sitting  and  smiling  along  the  rough  ledges, 
And  under  the  frown  of  the  hawthorn  hedges. 

Beautiful  daisies  ! 
Asking  no  favor  except  for  room, 
A  bit  of  a  foot-hold,  to  be  and  to  bloom. 

Beautiful  daisies  ! 
Swinging  a  censer  whose  breaths  arise, 
A  pure  adoration  up  to  the  skies. 


u 


Beautiful  daisies ! 
Seeking  no  praises,  but  living  to  bloom, 
And  gladden  the  breezes  with  sweet  perfume. 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  HA  W. 


63 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  HAW. 


I. 

A  HAW,  with  branches  of  bloom  j 
And  a  bird  on  the  topmost, 

Sitting  and  swinging, 

And  merrily  singing,  — 
O'er  all  the  sunshiny  meadow 

Her  glad  music  flinging. 

II. 

A  brook  is  under  the  haw, 
With  pads  and  white  blossoms  ; 

And  eddying,  curling, 

It  gives  them  a  twirling. 
And  half  drowns  the  tender  white  lilies 

With  foaming  and  whirling. 

III. 

But  out  of  the  brook  there  slides 
A  serpent  gold-crested ; 

Star-bright  are  his  eyes. 

But  his  lips  are  lies,  — 
He  spoils  the  nest  of  the  redbreast, 

And  wounded  she  flies. 


64 


GOOD-MORROW! 


\     1 


GOOD-MORROW ! 

Sunbeams,  laughing,  kiss  the  windows, 
Murmuring,  "  Open,  little  eyes  ! 

The  fields  are  filled  with  flowers  and  birds, 
The  sky  with  butterflies  !  " 


Rain-drops  patter  on  the  windows, 
Saying,  "  Sleep  a  little  more  ; 

The  flowers  are  wet,  the  birds  are  hid. 
And  rain  beats  on  the  door." 

Snow-flakes  light  upon  the  windows. 

Flying  slow  and  silently, 
Just  lisping,  "  Hush  !  don't  waken  them 

Till  we  have  heaped  up  high." 

Hailstones  rattle  on  the  windows. 
Crying,  "  Keep  the  children  in  ! 

For  Day  and  Darkness  are  at  war ; 
Wait  until  Day  shall  win  I  " 


»■■)  % 


GOOD-MORROW! 


$1 


Apple-blossoms  on  the  windows 
With  their  dainty  fingers  tap  : 
"  Now  all  who  love  the  world,  awake  ! 
The  world  wakes  from  its  nap." 


is. 


66 


THE  RED  RIDER. 


THE  RED  RIDER. 

They  fetched  the  fierce  pretender 

A  captive  to  King  Thorald's  hall, 

And  king  and  all  his  courtier  train 
Were  merrymaking  at  his  fall. 


1 


i* 


"  How  now,  ye  spurred  Red  Rider ! 

Where  now  thine  iron-pointed  pen, 
That  wrote  such  royal  promises 

To  tempt  my  swords  and  serving  men  I 

"  Write  now  thy  name,  Red  Rider, 

Upon  the  face  of  this  fair  wall, 
That  these  my  guests  may  drink  thy  health, 
Whene'er  they  gather  in  my  hall." 


Then  straightway  to  the  dais 

The  knight  approached  with  kingly  stride, 
And  from  its  scabbard  snatched  the  blade 

That  sparkled  by  King  Thorald's  side. 

None  stirred  ;  death-still  the  chamber ; 
Till  leapt  a  shriek  from  every  part, 


THE  KED  RIDER. 


67 


As  to  the  hilt  the  stranger  thrust 

The  dagger,  nigh  his  own  hot  heart. 


And  smearing  then  his  finger 

From  off  the  dripping,  gory  thing, 

He  scrawled  across  the  marble  wall 

Tnese  words  of  scarlet :  "  Eckhart,  King." 

'T  was  written,  and  close  wrapping 
His  soldier's  cloak  about  his  face, 

He  tottered  to  his  brother's  throne,  — 

Then  fell  —  and  fear  fell  on  the  place. 

And  prone  were  all  the  people, 

While  shrill  the  queen  and  jester  cried  ;  — 
For  claimant-king,  king-claimant,  both. 

That  fatal  festal  niirht  had  died. 


de, 


6S 


SONG:    THE   CARPENTER. 


SONG  :  THE  CARPENTER. 

I. 

I  'm  sad,  I  'm  sad,  for  the  joy  I  had 
Is  wrecked  like  a  craft  in  mid-sea  ; 

It 's  strange,  but  suddenly  youth's  fond  hope 
Seems  lost  forever  to  me. 


t 


Oho  !  how  slow  the  shavings  go  ; 

But  let  me  do  what  I  can,  — 
For  man,  for  man  was  meant  for  labor, 

And  labor  was  meant  for  man. 

II. 

I  'm  glad,  I  'm  glad,  for  the  grief  I  had 
Has  blown  like  a  cloud  away ; 

My  heart,  my  plane,  let  us  laugh  together, 
For  night  has  bloomed  into  day. 

Hi,  hi !  how  spry  the  shavings  fly  ! 

I  '11  work  as  well  as  I  can,  — 
For  man,  for  man  was  meant  for  labor, 

And  labor  was  meant  for  man. 


' 


SONG:    THE  CARPENTER. 


69 


III. 


O,  weary  the  hour  that  ushers  toil, 

And  heavy  the  moan  of  the  plane, 
When  labor  is  not  the  labor  of  love, 


And  can  be  never  again. 


ope 


Oho  !  how  slow  the  shavings  go  ; 

But  let  us  do  what  we  can,  — 
For  man,  for  man  was  meant  for  labor, 

And  labor  was  meant  for  man. 


IV. 


But  light  is  endeavor  that  hath  a  heart ; 

O.  sweet  those  sunshiny  days, 
When  every  bird-call  carols  of  hope. 

And  joy  speaks  a  thousand  ways. 


Hi,  hi !  how  spry  the  shavings  fly  ! 

I  '11  work  as  well  as  I  can,  — 
For  man,  for  man  was  meant  for  labor, 

And  labor  was  meant  for  man. 


;o 


THE   HANDSEL   RING. 


THE   HANDSEL   RING. 

[Introductory  song  to  second  edition  of  "The  Legend  of  St. 

Olaf's  Kirk."] 

"  Here,  O  lily-white  lady  mine, 
Here  by  thy  warrior  sire's  own  shrine, 
Handsel  1  thee  by  this  golden  sign. 

This  sunshiny  thing." 
Weeping  she  reached  her  hand  so  slim. 
Smiled,  though  her  eyes  were  wet  and  dim, 
Saying  :    "  I  swear,  by  Heaven,  by  him, 

And  by  this  handsel  ring !  " 

But  as  she  bended  her  eyes  abashed. 
Out  of  his  fingers  the  jewel  flashed. 
On  the  gray  flags  of  the  kirk  it  clashed. 

That  treacherous  thing  ; 
Clashed,  and  bounded,  and  circled,  and  sped, 
Till  through  a  crevice  it  flamed  and  fled,  — 
Down  in  the  tomb  of  the  knightly  dead 

Darted  the  handsel  ring. 


1 


d  of  St. 


T//E  HANDSEL  RING. 


71 


"  Matters  not,  darling  !    Ere  day  be  o'er, 
Goldsmiths  shall  forge  for  thy  hands  a  score  ; 
Let  not  thy  heart  be  harried  and  sore 
For  a  little  thing  !  " 
"  Nay  !  but  behold  what  broodeth  there  ! 
See  the  cold  sheen  of  his  silvery  hair ! 
Look  how  his  eyeballs  roll  and  stare. 
Seeking  thy  handsel  ring  !  " 


n. 


"  I  see  nothing,  my  precious,  my  own  ! 
'T  is  a  black  vision  that  sorrow  hath  sown  ; 
Haste,  let  us  hence,  for  dark  it  hath  grown, 
And  moths  are  on  wing." 
"  Nay,  but  his  shrunken  fist,  behold. 
Looses  his  lance-hilt  and  scatters  the  mold ! 
What  is  that  his  long  fingers  hold  ? 

Christ !  't  is  our  handsel  ring  !  " 


ed, 


And  when  the  bridegroom  bends  over  her. 
Neither  the  lips  nor  the  eyelids  stir ; 
Naught  to  her,  now,  but  music  and  myrrh. 
Needless  his  handsel  x'va^. 


PART   FOURTH. 


DRIFT   FROM   YORK-HARBOR, 

MAINE. 


ALONGSHORE. 

On  Maine's  rough  coast-line,  where  its  rocky  front 
Frowns  most  forbiddingly,  with  sudden  break 
A  small,  blue  river  pours  into  the  sea, 
And  widening  forms  a  harbor,  pent  but  safe  ; 
Behind  which,  half  concealed  by  buttonwoods, 
The  church-spire  of  Old- York  lifts  to  the  winds 
Its  weather-cock. 

Below  this  spire,  a  town, 
Where,  truant  from  the  city  dials,  come 
The  lazy  hours  to  lose  themselves  in  dreams  ■ 
And  sweet  forgetfulness  of  summer  heat ; 
An  idle  sort  of  place,  where  all  day  long 
It  seems  like  evening  with  the  day's  work  done, 
Where  men  haste  not,  because  there  is  no  haste. 
And  toil  but  little,  for  they  've  little  need  ; 
A  restful  corner,  where  the  August  breeze, 
From  softly  listening,  finger  on  the  lip. 
At  length  from  listlessness  falls  fast  asleep, 
Till  there  is  no  sound  heard  save,  now  and  then, 
Low  thunder  of  a  wagon  on  the  bridge, 


Mary  Mellish 
Archibald 
Memorial 


St 
t 


76 


ALONGSHORE. 


Some  shrill  cicada  from  his  citadel 

Beneath  a  thistle,  challenging  the  noon, 

The  whet  of  scythe  and  heavy  hoist  of  sail, 

The  dip  of  unseen  oars,  monotonous. 

And  softly  breathing  waves  that  doze  below. 

Too  weak  to  more  than  turn  themselves,  comj3lain. 

And  doze  again. 

Here  I  've  a  summer  love 
To  loiter,  these  small  noisds  in  my  ears. 
And  with  far-looking  eyes  to  drink  the  blue 
Of  the  near  mountain,  and  turn  back  the  leaves 
Of  legends  and  dim-lettered  histories 
From  older  days,  when  York  was  still  a  maid. 
And  wore  her  virgin  name.     Sweet  word  it  was  ; 
The  red-man  gave  it  her,  — his  chieftain's  name, 
Whom  first  the  crooning  west  wind  had  baptized, 
And  still  all  nature  knows  her  by  that  name. 
Melodious  with  the  murmur  of  sea  waves 
And  waving  boughs,  — for  often  in  the  night 
I  've  heard  the  lonesome  winds  and  hemlock-trees 
Calling  together  :  "  Ag-a-men-ti-cus  !  " 
While  the  round  mountain,  where  the  legends  say 
Still   sleeps   the   chieftain,  glowed  with   changing 

lights, 
As  if  the  ghosts  of  long-departed  tribes 


ALONGSHORE. 


77 


Waved  torches  o'er  their  sachem's  sacred  dust. 

I  love  to  stray  along  the  straggling  town, 

To  peer  into  its  cottages,  low  church. 

And  jail  long  tenantless  ;  and  lift  the  latch 

That  now  alone  suffices  to  defend 

The  block-house,  once  the   town's   frail  lease  of 

hope 
In  days  of  discord.     Following  then  the  road, 
I  wander  beachward  past  the  fishers'  huts. 
With  figure-head  or  horse-shoe  on  each  door, 
Where  men  mend  sails,  and  files  of  garrulous  geese 
Discuss  the  turn  of  tides  or  weather  signs. 
And  solemnly  file  on. 


Here,  from  this  knoll, 
The  stretch  of  the  blue  ocean  breaks  in  view, 
Flecked  only  by  white  sails,  a  tiny  spire 
White  like  a  sail,  but  still,  —  Boone  Island  Light ; 
And  southward,  like  shy  clouds  that  may  dissolve, 
The  Isles  of  Shoals,  far  glimmering. 


Now  the  road. 
With  weakening  steps,  forgets  to  further  stray, 
And  slumbers  by  the  quiet  of  the  route. 
Leaving  the  outer  world  a  wilderness,  — 
Forgets,  or  was  it  memory  of  the  deed 


78 


ALONGSHORE, 


Once  clone  here,  that  with  milkweed  choked  the 

way  ? 
Dlanchln^  the  lips  of  the  adventurer, 
Who  cried  :  "  Here  and  no  further  will  I  fare  ! " 
Look  down,  and  on  the  bed-rock  you  will  see 
Dull  streaks  of  crimson  lichens  ;  on  this  spot  — 
'Twas  long  ago,  but  still  the  tale  is  new. 
For  blood-spots  never  lose  their  horror  —  dropt 
York's  first  pale  minister,  a  goodly  man. 
Whom  ill  a  town  could  spare  at  any  time. 
Still  less  in  those  dark  days.     Here  with  one  sigh 
He  died,  a  hatchet  buried  in  his  brain. 
Filled  but  a  moment  earlier  with  sweet  thoughts  ; 
And  here  the  murderer  left  his  victim  stript, 
And  glorying  in  his  shame  ran  to  the  church. 
Decked  in  the  pastoral  garb,  and  at  its  door 
Taunted  the  worshipers,  as  in  twos  and  threes 
They  came  by  foot  or  horseback.     Lying  here. 
No  curse  was  read  upon  the  open  lips. 
But  in  this  trickling  autograph  of  blood 
The    town-folk,   outraged,    traced    the    red-man's 

doom. 


A  half  mile  further  on,  by  slender  path 
That  twists  and  turns  among  a  stunted 
Of  teasels  and  snarl-rooted  junipers, 


ALONGSHORE. 


79 


)f 


Striving  to  hide  the  leanness  of  the  land, 

We  toil  at  length  by  an  ascending  grade 

To  greener  heights,  where  mid  the  lichened  rocks, 

And  dimples  of  the  down  by  thistles  hedged, 

The  sheep  find  pasturage.     Here  on  a  knoll 

That  southward  slopes,  close  walled  about  by  elms 

And  chestnuts,  warding  off  the  winter  winds, 

A  farmstead  nestles,  with  its  clustering  group 

Of  barns,  snug  sheep-cotes,  and  wide,  fertile  fields 

Of  ripening  grain. 


I  love  this  old,  red  house, 
Where  many  a  summer  night  I  've  lain  at  ease 
Behind  that  upper  window  looking  east. 
And  many  a  midnight  willed  to  ward  off  sleep. 
Preferring  the  sweet  melody  of  the  waves. 
More  restful.     Naked  is  the  building's  face 
With  not  a  vine  upon  it,  but  hard  by 
Stand  lilac  bushes,  where  the  birds  weave  nests, 
And  from  them  carol  when  the  day  is  new, 
Saying,  "  Good-morrow  !  "  —  then  a  tall,  drest  elm. 
That  guards  the  grindstone's  place  and  helps  to  sift 
The  glare  and  fervor  from  the  midday  sun, 
When  from  the  meadow  comes  the  gh'stening  scythe 
To  cool  its  brilliance  with  a  watery  edge. 
And  tease  the  ear  of  the  o'erheated  day 


8o 


ALONGSHORE. 


With  its  keen  rasp,  far  sounding.     Here  too  stands 
The  well-sweep,  leaning  to  look  down  and  greet, 
Within  the  hollow  depth,  a  nether  world 
And  nether  well-sweep. 

Just  behind  the  house 
Hides  an  old  orchard,  where  the  pear-trees  drop 
Delicious  windfalls  ;  many  an  early  morn 
I  've  hastened  there  to  find  them,  pushed  apart 
The  rank  grass  pearled  with  dew-drops,  and  peered 

down 
To  catch  their  yellowing  glimmer.    There  too  smiles 
A  garden,  fragrant  with  sweet-smelling  herbs, 
Where  savory  camomile  and  southernwood 
Weave  spells   that  bring  the  blush  of  childhood 

back  ; 
Where  bloom  bright  four-o'clocks  and  bouncing- 
bets, 
With  hollyhocks  upon  whose  pink-white  breasts 
The  bees  cling  pendant,  drunk  with  over-feast ; 
Where  dying  peonies,  wading  ankle-deep 
In  their  own  life-blood,  totter  to  their  doom ; 
And  fiery  sunflowers  lord  it  over  all, 
Staring  a  gorgeous  stare. 

Further  behind 
Stand  rocks  precipitous,  where  last  at  night 


■;''ifl^v-.-.HkiafSM 


ALONGSHORE. 


8l 


The  sunshine  lingers,  but  no  herbnge  finds, 

For  winds,  those  gypsy  campers,  trample  it. 

Stealing  the  very  sand  ;  while  high  o'er  all 

Looms  a  dumb-beacon,  landmark  miles  around. 

And  when  the  night-winds,  hid  among  the  trees, 

Hold  their  tribunals  and  bewail  their  woes, 

It  groans  "  Amen  !  "  in  mournful  unison. 

Here,  when  red  sundowns  set  the  west  aflame, 

The  view  is  glorious.     Far  off  to  the  north 

The  jealous  land,  with  every  wane  of  tide, 

Sends  out  into  the  surf  a  long,  slim  arm. 

And  rolls  and  measures  in  its  hollow  hand 

A  rocky  isle,  —  the  Nubble,  it  is  called,  — 

Glad  landfall  unto  many  a  hungry  eye. 

That  in  those  early  days,  before  a  sail 

E'er  whitened  York's  small  harbor,  strained  to  catch 

Some  token  of  the  new,  half-doubted  world. 

Next,  circling  like  a  sickle,  toward  us  bends 

A  yellow  beach,  the  Long  Sands  ;  then,  blnck  rocks, 

Among  which,  like  the  gloomy  lurking-place 

Of  some  sea  creature,  darkens  a  huge  cave, 

In  whose  recesses,  when  the  tide-waves  flux, 

A  hollow  murmur  echoes,  heard  far  off. 

With  sighs  and  breathings,  strange,  unspeakable. 

That  deepen  as  the  night-hush  settles  down,  — 

A  swashing,  as  of  some  unwholesome  beast 


8c 


•  •     ALONGSHORE. 


Tufning  its  clumsy  shape  from  side  to  sidj, — 
A  crushing,  as  of  monster  jaws  that  craunch 
The  ribs  of  mammals. 


Nearer  still,  more  rocks, 
Piled  orderless,  among  which  stand  exposed 
The  remnants  of  a  vessel  that  the  sea, 
To  prove  the  valor  of  its  strong  right  hand. 
Once  tossed  and  wedged  there.     'T  was  a  furious 

night  ! 
I  slept  in  my  snug  chamber ;  waked,  and  heard 
The  rain  upon  my  window,  dashed  in  sheets, 
With  blasts  that  shook  the  roof-tree,  and  huge  seas 
That  seemed  to  rock  the  ven,'  hill  itself 
Under  the  house.     I  felt  a  growing  dread  ; 
Then  heard  tlie  men-folk  stirring,  and  leapt  up 
To  seek  companionship.     We  heaped  the  hearth 
With    logs    (though  't  was    not  winter),    gathering 

near, 
And  telling  tales  of  nights  like  unto  this, 
And  what  dread  sights  they  soiiietimes  left  to  shock 
The  waking  daybreak,  —  tales  of  fate  and  woe,  — 
Of  fisliing-smacks  blown  from  far-distant  ports, 
That  meeting  in  the  darkness  kissed  and  sank ; 
Of  snow-winged  ships  that  smiting  on  the  reef 
Clinked  mast  and  spar  as  brittle  stems  of  ice, 


:h 


rocks, 


I, 

1  furious 

lie  arc! 

:ts, 

luge  seas 


Dt  up 
hearth 
nrathering 


to  shock 
woe,  — 
:)orts, 
sank ; 

reef 

ice, 


ALOXGSIh 

And  like  a  frost-scene  meUed  irKtji^|yirf ;,"   " 
Of  funneled  frii^ates,  all  their  bravcrN^horn,- 
Drifting  unruddered  over  rainy  seas  ; 
Of  two-score  monsters  in  one  long-boat  crammed, 
With  fevered  lips  still  telling  the  red  suns, 
And  feeding  on  their  decrease,  till  but  one. 
With  wolfish  eyes,  remained  to  tell  of  it ; 
And  of  a  spectre  bark  with  sails  full  set 
Which  swept  before  an  autumn  equinox. 
Presaging  that  dull  day  when  every  house 
W^as  filled  with  lamentation. 

Talkinsf  thus, 
Of  this,  and  that,  and  all  things  harrowing. 
And  closing,  with  each  finish  of  a  tale. 
The  circuit  of  our  belt  about  the  hearth, 
Sudden,  —  while  every  eye  was  round  and  fixed 
Upon  the  speaker,  — sudden  at  the  blind 
Came  knockings,  —  and  we  started  to  our  feet. 
Clutching  each  other,  till  the  unlatched  door 
daped  open,  and  three  haggard,  wild  eyed  men 
In  staggered,  begging  in  the  name  of  Christ: 
"  A  draught  of  liquor,  brothers,  and  a  bed  ! 
For  we  be  dying  ! "     Thereupon  the  first, 
Falling  across  the  threshold,  choked  the  way; 
And  tliey  who  to  the  doorposts  feebly  clung, 


■ 


84 


ALONGSHORE. 


Like   spectres   eyed  us.      From   that  wreck   they 

came,  — 
All  that   the  waves  had  spared,  —  and  when  day 

dawned 
The  shore  with  their  companions  was  far  strewn. 

Thus  to  the  stranger,  loitering  from  the  town 
Or  rowing  roundabout,  looks  Norwood  Farm. 
So  looks  the  nook  in  which  I  love  to  hide, 
Forgetful  of  life's  dull  routine  of  cares. 
Forgetful  that  life  other  duty  holds 
Than  to  lie  down  in  the  cool  shade  of  trees. 
To  drink  the  air  and  light,  as  flowers  do, 
And  rest  completely.     Here  with  half-shut  eyes 
I  've  dreamt  light  day-dreams,  letting  fancy  fly 
Whither  it  would,  so  it  flew  not  too  far. 
To  make  return  wing-weary.     Some  I  've  held 
As  keepsakes,  that  they  might  revive  again 
The  pictured  dreams  ;  but  as  I  read  them  now, 
I  find,  like  pebbles  picked  at  break  of  day 
From  sliining  beac!ies,  most  have  lost  their  charm 
With  their  lost  sunglow. 

Such  from  Norwood's  Knoll 
The  scenes  on  which  its  beacon  daily  frowns  ; 
And  all  about,  on  every  side  save  one  — 


ALONGSHORE. 


85 


;ck   they 

hen  day 

trewn. 

town 
rm. 


The  narrow  neck  that  links  it  with  the  world  — 
A  tide  of  sunshine  breaks  with  waves  of  warmth 
On  piebald  hill-slopes  sprinkled  with  ripe  crops, 
Tossing  the  billowy  fields  o£  aftermath, 
And  wreathes  with  trophies  of  the  vine  and  oak 
This  titan  form,  o'er  which  the  summer  flings 
A  leopard's  hide,  that  from  its  shoulder  trails 
Down-sweeping  to  the  carpet  of  the  sea,  — 
A  sea  white-capped,  like  ermine-mantled  throne, 
On  which  this  bold  peninsula  sits  —  king  ! 


;es, 

it  eyes 

cy  fly 

held 

in 

H  now, 

:iir  charm 


od's  Knoll 
wns  \ 


If 


;  Ti 


1-^ 

'1^1 

i 

86 


77/£:   GATEWAY. 


THE  GATEWAY. 


A   VACATION    EPISODE. 


We  crossed  the  pasture-land  together, 
I  knew  that  now  my  time  drew  near, 

And  hastened,  longing  for  the  moment, 
Yel:  lingering,  holding  back  in  fear. 

I  wished  the  sunshine  would  not  flicker 

Across  the  river  in  my  eyes ; 
Then  hers  she  shaded  with  her  bonnet  — 

How  could  I  talk  through  that  disguise  ! 

I  wished  the  catbird  would  not  whistle, 
I  paused  till  he  grew  tired  and  still  ; 

And  then  the  frogs  took  up  the  music, 
And  lambs  came  bleating  from  the  hill. 

Now  all  was  silent ;  in  the  stubble 
The  crickets  even  held  their  peace  ; 

But  yet  I  waited,  wishing  only 

That  all  the  crickets  would  not  cease. 


THE   GATEWAY.  Sj 

I  saw  the  gateway  as  we  neared  it, 

I  shaped  my  mouth  and  formed  the  word, 

When  from  her  bonnet,  bent  demurely, 
A  little  laugh  I  thought  I  heard. 

A  ploughboy  passing,  smiled  and  nodded, 
I  bit  my  lip  and  blushed  for  shame  ; 

Then  stooped  to  pick  a  blood-red  berry,  — 
'T  was  sour,  and  speechless  I  became. 

I  leaned  upon  the  bars  ;  she  fluttered 

A  farewell  signal  back  to  me ; 
I  turned,  I  staggered  from  the  roadway,  — 

Gray  fog  came  drifting  from  the  sea. 


rilE  SEA-SHOKE. 


THT^:   SEA-SHORE. 

To  sit  on  the  sand  and  read  fine  tales, 
To  follow  the  slant  of  the  whitened  sails, 
And  the  clouds,  to  the  south  of  the  harbor's  mouth, 
That  shift  and  drift  like  a  shoal  of  whales. 

To  watch  the  waves  as  they  kiss  the  land, 
To  catch  their  foam  in  one's  hollow  hand, 
To  hold  it  and  feel  the  cool  drops  steal 

Through  all  one's  being  as  through  dry  sand. 

To  laugh  with  the  boys  who  know  nothing  of 

care. 
To  drift  with  their  skiffs,  nobody  knows  where, 
Till,  drunken  with  day-dreams,  life's  mystery  seems 
Dissolved  in  the  wine  of  the  slumberous  air. 


The  breeze  is  soft  as  the  breath  of  a  fan, 
But  it  faints  on  cheeks  that  are  thin  and  wan,  — 
Too  thin  for  the  heart's  rill  ever  to  fill. 
Too  pale  for  the  sunshine  ever  to  tan. 


THE  SEA-SHORE. 


89 


Land,  ocean,  and  air  —  the  sun  declines, 
And  twilight,  with  soft  pink  fingers,  twines 
A  woof  of  the  three,  till  one  can  scarce  see 

The  bound  'tween  things  earthly  and  things 
divine. 

Ye  fairy  ships,  and  ye  ships  of  air, 
That   trail    with    my   thoughts    beyond    life's 
care,  — 
With  canvas  like  milk,  and  sheets  of  silk, 

Stoop  down,  and  I  '11  sail  with  thee  anywhere  ! 


jrous  air. 


90 


THE  REAPER. 


THE   REAPER. 

The  wheat-stalks  are  heavy  and  white, 

They  slant  beside  the  wall, 
And  lean  against  each  other, 

Lest  they  should  faint  and  fall. 

Beneath  them  the  poppies  crouch. 
Knee-deep  in  their  crimson  bloom. 

And  partridge  and  shuffling  woodchuck 
Glide  shyly  into  the  gloom. 

mong  them  the  brown  bee  strays. 
Oft  stops  to  feed  his  fill. 
And  bears  his  burden  of  sweetness 
Homeward  over  the  hill. 

And  over  them,  to  and  fro. 
The  yellow  butterfly  wheels, 

Then,  catching  a  flash  of  sunshine, 
Wafts  it  across  the  fields. 


The  reaper  leans  on  his  scythe, 
And  watches  the  river  flow, 


THE  REAPER. 

He  watches  a  boat  on  its  bosom, 
And  the  rowers  as  they  row. 

His  hopes  are  part  of  its  freight, 
Ana,  gazing  with  misty  eyes, 

A  tempest  of  sudden  ruin 

Drives  through  the  darkened  skies. 

For  the  reaping  time  has  come. 
And  waiting  the  reapei  stands, 

But  the  running  river  snatches 
The  harvest  from  his  hands. 


91 


92 


FOUR- LEAF  CLOVER 


FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER. 

"  If  one  find  a  four-leaf  clover  " 
(She  said,  sitting  on  the  grass), 

"  He  can  wish  whate'er  he  likes  to,  — 
And  that  wish  shall  come  to  pass." 

"  Do  you  say  so  ?  "     Then  down  kneeling 
'Mong  the  sorrel  and  cropt  grass, 
Looked  I  for  a  four-leaf  clover 
And  my  wish  to  come  to  pass. 

Long  I  searched  among  the  sorrel, 
Close  beside  me  she  searched  too ; 

Now  and  then  some  commonplaces 
Broke  the  silence,  —  but  it  grew. 

For  my  heart  was  full  of  yearning, 
And  my  mouth  of  eager  words. 

But  I  dared  not  give  them  utterance,  — 
So  I  hearkened  to  the  birds ; 


And  kept  looking,  looking,  looking. 
While  beside  me  she  looked  too,  - 


FOUR-LEAF  CLOVER. 

Two  bent  figures  in  the  twiliglit, 
Green  hills  paling  into  blue. 


93 


"  Ha  !  I  have  one  !  "     «  Yes,  and  wished  for  ?  "  — 
"  You  !  and  shall  it  be  ?  "  I  cried. 
Eyes  cast  down,  she  asked  demurely, 
"  Hath  the  clover  not  replied  ?  " 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


'   Uk    1 22, 

.^  Ilia 

U    III  1.6 


6"     - 


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Pnotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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94 


T/fE  BIG  BELL. 


THE  BIG  BELL. 

A  BEACON  overlooked  the  shore  ; 

Within  a  big  bell  hung  ; 
And  three  stout  men  stood  at  the  rope 

Whenever  it  was  swung. 

In  storms  and  tumults  it  was  heard, 
Loud  crying  through  the  gloom, 

Or  at  the  menace  of  strange  craft. 
And  fear  was  in  its  boom. 

It  chanced,  one  day,  that  to  the  wharf 
Came  Esther,  Joseph's  wife. 

And  on  the  wet  sand  played  her  boy, 
The  pearl  of  Esther's  life. 


He  chased  the  ripples  up  and  down, 
He  stoned  the  swooping  birds. 

And  called  upon  the  tall  gray  cliff 
And  made  it  speak  his  words. 

"  Mamma  1  mamma  ! "    The  woman  turned. 
He  was  not  on  the  beach,  — 


THE  BIG  BELL.  95 

Green  breakers  snatched  and  hurried  him 
Far  out  beyond  her  reach. 

She  saw  his  curls  ;  one  sob  to  heaven 

The  piteous  mother  sent ; 
Then  struggling  up  the  stony  chasm, 

Her  breathing  well-nigh  spent, 

She  sprang  within  the  tower  door, 

She  seized  th'i  hempen  coil, 
And  at  the  doztn  snuering  peals 

Each  laborer  left  his  toil. 

"  O  woe  is  me  !    O  grievous  woe  !  " 

The  booming  message  rang, 
"  Oh  !  hasten,  yeoman  !     Woe  is  me  !  " 

It  cried,  —  "  Clang-clang,  clang-clang  I ' 

They  placed  the  boy  safe  in  her  arms. 
And  still  the  big  bell  hummed  ; 

And  Joseph  bore  them  to  his  home. 
Before  the  bell  was  dumbed. 


The  tower  still  stands  beside  the  sea ; 

Within,  the  bell  is  hung ; 
But  never  yet  hath  man  been  known 

Who  waked  its  mighty  tongue. 


THE  SUMMER  STORM. 


THE   SUMMER   STORM. 

In  a  scurry  of  clouds 

Sudden  day  fell, 
What  ho  !  ye  swallows  ! 

All  is  not  well. 

With  broken  flights 

They  wheel  through  the  sky, 
And  sea-gulls,  wailing, 

Go  hurrying  by. 

Up  to  the  bars 

The  cattle  fare^ 
And  cries  from  the  sheep-cote 

Fill  all  the  air. 

O'er  the  frightened  sea 
The  storm-cloud  leaps, 

And  its  shadow  behind 
Like  a  garment  sweeps. 

The  slant  rain  beats 
The  sea  into  froth, 


THE  SUMMER  STORM, 

The  hoarse  winds  have  left 
Their  home  in  the  north. 

High  over  the  beach 
Blows  white  foam-sleet, 

On  gray  rock-walls 
The  green  tides  beat. 

The  reef  is  drowned, 

Boone  Light  is  wiped  out ; 
**  It  comes  !  it  comes  !  " 
The  women-folk  shout. 


9/ 


Now  all  is  blotted, 

The  world  is  no  more, 
But  water,  and  wind, 

And  the  sea's  uproar. 

7 


e 


98 


EVENING. 


EVENING. 

A  LEVEL  sea, 

A  film  of  blue 
Covering  the  coast-line ; 

A  sail  or  two  ; 

A  ship  asleep 

On  the  offing's  breast, 
A  blood-red  ball 

Low  down  in  the  west ; 

A  poplar  perched 

High  on  the  hill, 
Black  'gainst  the  crimson, 

Stark  and  still. 

Now  fades  the  great  ball,  - 
It  was  the  sun,  — 

And  sky  and  ocean 
Melt  into  one. 


EVENING. 

Now  the  mists,  like  a  tide, 
Slowly  lift  and  lift, 

Till  all  the  landscape 
Is  set  adrift. 


99 


n. 


1,- 


100 


THE  BLACK  BOARS. 


THE  BLACK  BOARS. 


I. 


The  Black  Boars  crouch,  a  huddling  pile, 
Without  York-Harbor  half  a  mile  ; 
And  there,  at  ebbing  of  the  tides, 
They  wallow,  sunning  their  shaggy  sides, 
And  pant  and  grumble  all  the  while. 

About  them  the  flat  sea  is  broke, 
And  fleecy  foam-clouds,  white  like  smoke, 
Lift  heavenward  and  then  landward  drift 
Athwart  the  meadow,  where  they  sift 
Soft  rain  o'er  the  driver  and  his  yoke.  , 

"  Wh-hoish  !  my  beauties  !  "  Martin  said, 
"  Cheer  up,  my  bonny  one  ;  courage,  Ned  ! 

Another  hour  is  all  I  ask, 

But  we  must  haste  to  end  our  task,  — 
For  the  Boars  bode  storm  ere  day  be  dead." 

Far  down  the  river,  beyond  the  bridge, 
Ruth  caught  their  grunting,  but  a  ridge 


THE  BLACK  BOARS. 


lOI 


Of  yellow  sand-dunes  hid  the  view  ; 
Blue  sky  she  saw,  and  sunshine,  too, 
That  laughed  on  her  flowering  window-ledge. 

Work-weary  she  arose,  pushed  back 
Her  girlish  ringlets  thick  and  black, 

And  peering  'neath  one  shading  hand, 

Perceived  upon  the  river  sand 
Her  Elsie's  barrow  and  small  track. 

The  tall  clock  told  that  it  grew  late  ; 

Once  more  she  twirled  her  wheel  of  fate  ; 
The  soft  wool  stretched  and  brake  in  two, 
The  kitten  caught  it  as  it  flew,  — 

And  chiding  her,  Ruth  sought  the  gate. 

The  sea  lay  motionless ;  afar 

White  smacks  were  tacking  toward  the  bar ; 

Adown  the  hill  filed  home-bound  herds ; 

She  watched  a  few  fast-flying  birds, 
And  following,  missed  the  evening  star. 


With  sudden  creak  of  the  weather-vane. 
Wind-scuds,  with  gray  squalls  in  their  train, 
Came  flocking  from  the  misty  south. 
Throwing  a  gloom  o'er  the  harbor  mouth,  — 
A  half-felt  fear  throbbed  through  her  brain. 


102 


THE  BLACK  BOARS, 


The  river  was  still  a  line  of  light, 
Un flecked  save  by  one  dory's  flight, 

That  toward  the  darkened  offing  sped ; 
"  Thank  God  !  "  the  mother  fondly  said, 
"  It 's  none  of  mine  helms  that  boat  to-night  1 " 

For  suddenly  it  seemed  to  her 
As  if  the  lilack  Boars  nearer  were  ; 
A  sound  of  laughter  wandered  by, 
And  echoed  back  a  low,  sad  cry, 
That  sighed  in  the  poplars,  now  astir. 


II. 

Now  Martin  from  the  meadow  strode, 
His  oxen  bent  'neath  their  clover  load  ; 
Big  rain-drops  pattered  on  the  barn. 
From  the  spinning-wheel  trailed    tangled 
yarn,  — 
He  called,  then  sauntered  to  the  road. 


Down  dropped  night's  curtains  ;  hand  in  hand 
Roamed  floods  of  the  air  and  sea  and  land  ; 
And  by  the  lightning's  fitful  glows 
Stalked  from  the  sea  huge,  hooded  rows 
Of  breakers,  thundering  up  the  strand. 


THE  BLACK  BOARS, 


103 


ed; 
lid, 
night !  ** 


r. 


ad  J 
rn, 
tangled 

lad. 

ind  in  hand 
ind  land  ; 

s 
led  rows 

md. 


III. 

Snarled,  drifting  lily-pads  still  told 

An  ebbing  tide,  and  on  it  rolled 
A  boat,  Ruth  tugging  at  the  oars,  — 
Too  late  she  gave  ear  to  the  lioars. 

And  pierced  the  treachery  they  foretold. 

Each  wind-blast  bore  the  name  she  cried  ; 

The  wreckers  from  the  shore  descried 
Her  ghostly  figure,  and  were  afraid. 
For  to  each  other  low  they  said  : 
"  The  Boar-King  claims  to-night  a  bride  !  " 

The  pounding  surf  now  sounds  more  near  ; 

Her  straining  eyes  in  the  gloom  austere 
Shape  flitting  pairs  of  eyeballs  bright. 
And  rude,  rough  hands  from  left  and  right 

Her  garments  plucking,  first  wake  fear. 

The  swamping  boat  now  rolls,  now  flies, 
A  shuttlecock  between  sea  and  skies  ; 
And  toppling  giddily  in  air, 
Below  she  sees  the  wild  Boars'  lair, 
And  looks  straight  into  their  bloodshot  eyes. 


104 


THE  BLACK  BOARS. 
IV. 


Gray  broke  the  drizzly  dawn,  and  found 
Full  half  the  sleepless  town's-folk  bound 
Along  the  streaming  ocean  front, 
Some  wading,  some  in  skiff  or  punt, 
Searching  the  sand  and  the  marshes  dro\\ned. 

Sad  was  the  scene  it  woke  to  show  : 
Two  shattered  boats  by  the  Boars  crushed  low  ; 
The  father,  stricken,  found  them  there,  — 
Like  silkweed  shone  the  tangled  hair 
That  bound  together  their  breasts  of  snow. 


THE   WITCH  OF  YORK. 


105 


d 
id 


row: 


shed  low  ; 
ere,  — 
lir 
snow. 


THE  WITCH  OF  YORK. 

Up  o'er  tlie  hill  and  broken  w.ill 
There  stole  a  weird  form,  bent  but  tall ; 
And  softly  through  our  unhitched  door 
She  crept  unbidden,  and  before 
The  hearth-fire  crouching,  gazed  upon  us  all. 

All  looked,  none  spake  ;  the  chimney  sighed  ; 

The  cat  mewed  drearily  and  tried 

To  go  but  could  not ;  close  and  dim 
The  room  became,  and  ghastly  grim 

The  ghosts  that  fell  on  us  and  multiplied. 

We  heard  the  gusts  ride  through  the  pines, 
We  heard  them  twist  from  the  trellised  vines 
The  1  ean-blows  ;  and  the  scowling  west 
Sent  up  a  growl  of  hoarse  unrest, 
As  of  some  hungry  beast  that  frets  and  whines. 

Lean  spectres  seemed  to  spur  the  wind. 
Weird  doubts  and  fancies  stormed  the  mind, 


io6 


THE   WITCH  OF  YORK. 


And  doubt  is  fear,  and  what  is  fear 
But  anguish  !  —  "  Say  !  what  lurketh  near  ? 
Shall  our  to-morrow  cruel  prove,  or  kind  ? " 

Then  frgm  her  breast  the  creature  drew 
Her  fate-pack  ;  moodily  she  blew 

And  deftly  shuffled  black  with  red ; 

Till  Esther  gaped  and  whispering  said 
To  Robert,    "  One  would  think  she  thought  she 
knew." 

Whereat,  the  eyes  of  the  woman-witch 
First  sparkled,  then  grew  black  as  pitch ; 
We  shivered  at  her  evil  look. 
Her  ear-rings  in  the  glamour  shook. 
And  we  could  see  her  neck-cords  writhe  and  twitch. 

The  low  clouds  huddled  overhead 

In  black  disorder;  on  the  shed 

We  watched  the  sunshine,  charging,  beat 
Them  back,  then  struggle  and  retreat : 

"  Come,   woman,  come  !  't  will   soon  be  time  for 
bed  !  " 

She  passed  the  pack  ;  the  maiden  broke 
It  into  three  ;  then  Robert  spoke  : 


THE    WITCH  OF  YORK. 


107 


th  near  ? 
i?" 


said 
thought  she 


;h3 

)k, 

le  and  twitch. 


ng,  beat 
Lreat : 
be  time  for 


ke 


"  Tell,  mother,  this  my  sister's  fate." 
The  woman  only  muttered,  "  Wait !  " 
And  silent,  fanned  the  embers  into  smoke. 

The  dim  light  lit  the  topmost  card, 

She  looked  upon  it  long  and  hard, 

Then  peering  through  her  grisly  brow 
Glared  upward  at  the  girl  —  "  Now,  now, 

Will  I  unlock  my  lips  ;  mind  you  each  card  ! 

"  Ace  hearts  :  sole  child,  and  of  love's  bed  ; 
A  spade  twice  next :  both  parents  dead  ; 

Black  tenners  twice  in  turn  —  beware  ! 

Though  comely  shaped,  thy  features  fair. 
Thy  feet  in  snares  I  see,  webs  round  thy  head. 

"No  sister  thou  !  — black  seven  :  no  kin  ; 

Aha  !  queen  clover,  treacherous  then  ! 

Well  may  thy  pouting  mouth  turn  pale, 
Within  a  deuce,  beneath  swollen  sail 

Thou  fliest  from  some  sorrow  or  some  sin. 

"  The  second  deal  holds  more.     Still  pain  ! 
Within  a  fres  behold  thy  stain 

A  smoke  to  blur  and  blind  the  skies, 

A  fire  kindled,  that  thine  eyes 
May  quench  not  though  they  should  dissolve  as  rain. 


io8 


THE    WITCH  OF  YORK. 


"  Black  still  and  clover :  in  a  one 

A  coffin  ;  now  third  deal,  and  done. 

Hearts  six,  and  dabbled  o'er  with  red  : 
Within  that  space  thy  wooer  dead  ; 

Spades  seven  :  to  thee  are  left  seven  years  to  run." 

Aghast  we  stood ;  she  spake  no  more, 

But  flung  the  cards  across  the  floor, 

And  up  the  yawning  chimney's  throat. 
With  wind-rush  and  one  thunder  note. 

She  swept.  —  We  looked,  and   saw  the  buttoned 
door. 

We  heard  the  swallows  cry  and  call, 
Then  late,  the  storm's  long  looked-for  brawl ; 
And  louder,  shriller  than  the  last, 
Up  through  the  cavernous  flue  one  blast 
Sucked  flame  and  fuel,  cat  and  cards,  —  and  all ! 


red  : 


ears  to  run." 


iroat, 
note, 
the  buttoned 


brawl ; 


PART    FIFTH. 
KETILL   THE   SAGAMAN. 


le  blast 
—  and  all ! 


KETILL  THE   SAGAMAN. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  "SIX  FLIGHTS  OF  THE 

DRAGONS." 

Scene^  Nidaros^  the  Royal  City  of  Norway  ;  Period^ 

about  ii^o  A.  Z>. 


I. 


THE  WINTER  COURT  AT  NIDAROS. 

Long  were  the  night-times  on  that  slip  of  shore, 
Hedged  in  on  one  hand  by  the  snow-capped  hills, 
And  to  the  westward  by  the  main,  upheaved 
And  hillocky,  that  walled  them  from  the  world. 

Now  Magnus,  clept  the  Proper,  best  of  men, 
On  shoulders  broad  bore  up  the  royal  red 
In  streeted  Nidaros,  —  a  peaceful  man, 
More  proud  to  be  a  father  than  a  king ; 
jAnd  he,  content  to  see  his  people  glad. 
With  rubicund,  round  face  —  a  smiling  sun,  — 
Made  them  the  more  so. 


112 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AX. 


Yet  would  seasons  fall 
When  even  pampered  sloth  grew  wearisome  ; 
When  for  long  time  the  north-glow's  dream  of  day, 
By  snow-wrack  fenced  and  ever  thickening  fog, 
Left  heaven  free  race-course  for  the  hurricane  , 
When  from  the  smoking  surface  of  the  sea 
The  gypsy  lanterns  of  the  moor-ild  fled, 
And  flickering  went  out ;  and  tardily 
The  moonless  nights  dragged  into  sunless  days, — 
Each  night  so  like  its  males  in  heaviness 
And  each  succeeding  day  so  like  the  night, 
That  to  the  yawning  world  of  Nidaros 
The  slowly  trickling  sand-glass  on  the  shelf 
Seemed  clo<x2:ed  in  the  throat,  and  the  black  bat  of 


'&& 


Time 
Clipt  of  its  wings. 

Oft  in  such  straits  as  this, 
Like  a  barred  dungeon-keep  became  the  court,  — 
Each  kaemper  prisoned  by  his  own  camp-fire. 
Each  skipper  all  too  safely  left  astrand. 
Each  huntsman  to  his  own  hole  bayed  and  barked 
By  wolf-packs,  famine-driven  from  the  hills. 
Then,  ever  watchful,  down  upon  them  charged 
The  Spirit  of  Unrest,  the  Quarrelsome, 
Sloth's  ever-ready  handmaid,  —  locks  unkempt. 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


113 


easons  fall 
some  ; 

•earn  of  clay, 
ning  fog, 
irricane  , 

2  sea 
d, 

less  clays,  — 

ess 

night, 

>s 

3  shelf 

e  black  bat  of 


Tempests  of  passion  in  her  eyes,  — who  sprang 

With  easy  stride  across  that  steed  untamed, 

The  roaring  North-Wind,  fretting  his  white  flanks 

With  bony  thigh,  and  heel,  and  willowy  scourge,  — 

And  dropt  into  their  midst.     Unwelcome  guest. 

She  pushed  unbidden  to  their  banquet-hall  ; 

And,  planted  ghostlike  at  the  upper  board, 

A  hollow-eyed  and  scowling  seneschal, 

Sucked  the  light  breath  of  wick  and  smoking  brand, 

Unspiced  the  dishes,  turned  to  dissonance 

The  flourish  of  the  trumpet  that  foretold 

Each  change  of  platter  ;  and  from  every  mouth, 

Though  full-fed  and  with  laughter  puckered,  stole 

All  mirth  and  mask  of  it. 


s  as  this, 
he  court,  — 
amp-fire, 

d, 
d  and  barked 

e  hills. 
w  charged 

ne, 
unkempt. 


But  ever  then 
Ere  hate  of  fellowship  and  hate  of  all 
Had  time  to  mutter  into  voiced  complaint 
And  thrust  its  clamor  to  the  royal  ear, 
Would  Magnus  read  it  ambushed  in  the  eye 
And  torpid  tongue,  and  ready-witted  speed 
Slim  pages  to  each  chamber  of  his  house. 
Proclaiming,  "  Vesper  being  rung  this  night. 
We  will  to  guest-hall,  and  the  skald  shall  sound 
The  masterful  exploits  of  Harold's  days  ; " 
Or  "  Lady  Valborg's  lips,  by  song-craft  stirred, 

8 


^ 


114 


KETILL    TflE  SAG  AM  AN. 


Have  to  her  harp  a  tender  ballad  taught ; " 
Or  "  He  of  Flanders  with  his  juj^^ijlery 
Shall  play  the  herbrest  and  astound  our  ears;" 
Or  "  With  us  lodge  we  a  far-traveled  guest, 
Late  from  our  neighbor  isle  of  Angle-Land, 
Whose  tales  of  the  last  tournay,  warming  us, 
Shall  deck  with  summer-glow  our  dingy  walls, 
Shall  filch  from  each  all  thought  of  present  ill, 
Kindle  the  tinder  of  each  ashen  cheek, 
And  with  a  youngling's  ardor  kiss  away 
The  frown  from  every  forehead." 

« 

Then  post-haste 

Throughout  the  skali,  honeycombed  and  vast,  — 

Itself  a  petty  realm,  shorn  from  the  rest 

By  stress  of  weather,  — with  light  pattering  feet 

And  tongues  untethered  would  the  pages  flit, 

Coursing  the  windy  flights  and  passage-ways, 

Pushing  unheralded  in  every  room, 

E'en  ladies'  bower,  their  tossing  yellow  hair; 

And  summer  would  steal  back  to  darkened  eyes, 

And  yawns  and  sighs  to  ready  laughter  yield. 

Thus,  one  mid-winter  time,  when  sleet  and  frost 

Beleaguering  the  palace-prison  walls, 

So  closely  sat  that  few  had  ventured  forth 


. » 


v; 

7 

)ur  ears ; 

guest, 

-Land, 

iiiiig  us, 

gy  walls, 

)resent  ill, 

ay 


hen  post-haste 
and  vast,  — 
rest 

ering  feet 
iges  Hit, 
je-ways, 

)w  hair ; 
ened  eyes, 
er  yield. 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


lis 


For  a  full  sennight,  ran  the  welcome  word. 
Promptly  the  meal  was  served,  the  vesper  chimed, 
The  praying  priest  cut  short  of  his  "Amen," 
And  the  long  guest-hall  thronged  to  furthest  bench 
By  all  the  household,  ringed  in  babbling  groups 
About  the  bonfires,  roaring  down  their  midst. 

Knight,  squire,  ahd  house-carle  sat  as  equals  here  : 
Some  backward  swaying,  propt  upon  one  arm. 
Scanning  the  pictured  carpets  on  the  walls  ; 
Some  burying  pale  cheeks  between  both  fists 
To  follow  those  that  gamed  ;  still  more  with  bairn 
Or  goodwife  at  their  sides,  or  favorite  hound  ; 
While    some,  bow-backed,  unruffled  hugged    their 

knees. 
And  leaned  to  listen  for  the  twentieth  time 
To  some  spent  tale.     And  though  impatient  all. 
Each  suddenly  found  much  that  must  be  said,  — 
For  time  being  afield,  like  pack  unleashed 
All  sped  to  join  the  chase,  tongues  running  wild ; 
And  whether  rat  or  roebuck  were  the  quest 
Mattered  but  little. 


t  and  frost 


forth 


Garrulous  the  hour 
Ere  from  the  threshold  of  the  royal  rooms 
Swept  in  the  court  and  courtiers  j  whereupon 


ii6 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


With  much  ado  of  bench  and  buskined  foot, 

Crushing  sweet  odor  from  the  cedar  sprays, 

All  else  arose ;  and  the  high-constable 

With  stafT  of  office  overtopped  the  din, 

Sounding  the  salutation  :  "  Hail,  all  hail ! 

Hail  to  King  ^lagnus  !  and  our  new-come  guest!  " 

Whereto,  with  mighty  echo,  as  of  billows 
That  storm  a  rock-walled  shore,  adown  the  hall 
Resounded  the  fair  words  of  welcome  :  "  Hail  I 
Hail  to  King  Magnus  !  and  our  new-come  guest  I  " 


II. 


THE   SAGAMAN. 

"  Who,  comrade,  is  the  stranger  that  we  greet  ? " 
One  to  another  whispered,  "  and  wherefrom, 
This  unkind  month  (*the  howler'),  hath  he  come, 
Dropt  like  a  troll-stone  ? " 


"  Ketill,  I  am  told, 
The  golden-tongued,  who,  but  a  twelfth-night  since. 
Trusting  himself  to  horse  the  hoary  sea 
That,  raging,  to  the  low  clouds  flung  its  froth. 
Left  Floki's  Isle  with  letters  for  this  court ; 


KETILL    THE  SAG  A  MAX. 


117 


And  in  the  whirlwind  of  the  stormy  sky 
Caught  helpless  by  the  hollow-handed  gale, 
Flew  whistling  through  the  gloom  of  unseen  snows, 
Helped  by  the  hands  that  would  unsaddle  him, 
Till  (praised  be  Rana  !)  though  by  wind  and  wave 
Shorn  to  the  quick,  until  unkeeled  he  drave 
With  strained  and  naked  mast,  he  nathless  made 
Our  stormy  Nidarness,  and  weathering  that. 
Now  houses  with  us." 

"  To  this  westerling 
Is  Nidaros  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  Aye,  my  friend  ; 
But  not  so  Ketill  to  our  Nidaros, 
For  every  kaupskip  flying  from  the  west 
Hath  sung  his  praises  ;  and  now  well,  now  ill, 
Oft  harassed  us  with  snatches  of  his  lore. 
Which  echoing  hither  in  such  broken  strain. 
Yet  tuneful  still,  to  Lady  Valborg's  ears. 
Have  by  her  mouth  been  cunningly  recast 
In  moving  ballad  and  glad  roundelay." 

''  Of  lineage  is  he  ? " 


"  That  he  is,  forsooth  ! 


' 


Ii8 


KETILL    THE  SAGA  MAN, 


His  veins  still  tingling  with  that  noble  strain, 
The  blood  of  Snorri,  Vinhmd's  princeliest  gift 
To  Iceland.     Knowst  thou  not  the  story  old 
Of  how  the  virgin  West-world,  being  won, 
Conceived,  and  to  our  stalwart  race  bequeathed 
A  man-child  as  its  heir,  —  one  Snorri  ?     Nay? 
The  more,  then,  wilt  thou  relish  Ketill's  words ; 
For  this,  saith  gossip,  is  the  saga  store 
The  King  will  sue  for." 

Whereupon  a  pause, 
And  there  was  stillness  in  the  place  of  din,  — 
Save,  shrill  without,  the  whistle  of  wild  winds. 
Dashes  of  sleet,  and  pound  of  pebbly  hail ; 
While,  warm  within,  the  crackle  of  fat  brands 
Widening  their  summer  circle  on  the  floor. 
Brake  in  between  the  drench  and  cheery  cry 
Of  mungat  bubbling  in  oft-emptied  bowls. 

High  on  the  dais,  ringed  by  twinkling  wicks. 

Sat  Magnus,  with  Queen  Thora  by  his  side  ; 

At  right  of  whom  was  Hakon,  Norway's  heir, 

And  Hilda,  the  pale  princess  ;  to  the  left. 

Sir  Axel  Thordson,  chiefest  of  the  knights. 

Smiling  response  to  many  a  friendly  beck. 

With  close  beside  him  —  trothed,  and  hair  in  snood, 


KETILL    THE  SAG  A  MAN.  I  IQ 

And  yet  uncloudud  by  her  hovering  doom  — 
The  Lady  Valborg,  loveliest  of  the  court 
And  most  beloved. 


"  Comrades,"  quoth  the  King, 
"  All  hail  to  gentle  Ketill,  newly  come 
From  our  far  sister  state  of  Floki's  Isle, 
Where  in  the  stead  of  Ari,  lately  dead, 
He  filleth  worthily  the  abbot's  see. 
And  if  it  be  his  pleasure,  we,  ere  morn, 
Will  quaff  his  spicy  saga  of  the  west, 
That  wonder-land  of  Leif  the  Fortunate, 
Whereof  our  Lady  Valborg  oft  hath  sung, 
Painting  the  place  a  flowery  paradise,  — 
Where  eager  sunshine,  not  content  with  one, 
Smiled  and  caressed  all  seasons,  each  in  turn. 
But  doubtless,  with  her  tinkling  woman's  tongue. 
Oft  chiming  woe  so  it  doth  lovely  seem. 
She  hath  but  rung  the  pleasant  harmonies. 
And  left  all  wild  or  jangling  tones  untouched. 


"  To-night  we  would  live  o'er  the  troublous  past. 

And  be  a  part  of  it,  courting  the  shade 

As  well  as  sun-glow  ;  and  full  well  we  know  — 

O  modest  master  of  the  saga  school  — 

That  mead-cup  here  to-night  hath  kissed  no  mouth 


120 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


So  fit  to  fling  aside  the  veil  as  thine,  — 

Thy  voice  a  clarion  that  all  ears  commands, 

Thy   thoughts    brave    watchwords,    worthy   to    be 

nicked 
Along  our  tables  and  by  all  men  known. 


*'  Then  show  us,  Ketill,  how  through  lifting  fog 
First  iJiarni  saw  a  new-born  world  leap  up 
From  the  white  breakers  ;  with  thy  ready  lips 
Relate  the  lucky  flight  that  gave  to  Leif 
An  entrance  to  the  gates  unlocked  before  ! 
Tell  us  how  Thorwald,  his  first  brother,  fared  ; 
And  Thorstein,  with  sweet  Gudrid,  after-wed 
To  Yarl  Karlsefne  ;  and  in  course  recall 
Those  two  most  sombre  flights  yet  further  on, 
Led  by  that  wolfish  woman,  born  to  taunt 
And  chasten  Erik  for  his  youthful  sin, 
Lustful  Freydisa  !     Fear  not,  modest  guest. 
To  weary  us,  for  long  ere  thou  wert  come 
We  learned  the  witchcraft  of  thine  eloouence. 
We  wait  thy  pleasure,  and  are  thiut  ^o  please  ! ' 


KETILL    THE  SAG  A  MAN. 


121 


III. 


THE   SCHOOL   OF   THE    PRIESTS. 


**  All  hail  !  O  Norway's  king,  and  mine  as  well  1 
And  hail !  thy  lady  queen,  thy  kin,  thy  kith, 
Thy  knights  and  ladies,  and  thy  gentlemen  ! 
But  standing  forth  in  this  fair  company. 
Where  every  one  is  friend,  and  every  friend 
O'errates  the  prowess  of  my  priestly  tongue, 
My  words  sound  hollow  in  the  lofty  hall, 
And  glndlier  would  I  listen  than  relate. 
Yet  I  am  thine  till  thou  art  tired  of  me. 
And  lot  me  but  a  week  of  nights  like  this, 
And  ere  the  yule-logs  feeding  these  long  hearths 
Make  summer  out  of  season,  and  gay  groups 
Of  jeweled  dancers  jingling  o'er  thy  floors 
Usher  more  blithe  amusement,  —  I  will  strive 
To  fittingly  unearth  the  buried  past. 
To  lend  to  it  such  color  as  I  may ; 
And,  as  I  may,  to  picture  slowly  forth 
In  red  and  azure  (as  your  ladies  do. 
Pricking  brave  scenes  upon  their  sampler  webs). 
Half-glimpses  from  those  fateful  voyages  six 
Of  skipper  Biarni  and  the  dragon  flock 
That,    following  him,   sought  nest-room    for   their 
broods. 


122 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


"  But  ye  must  fillip  me  whene'er  your  eyes 
Grow  heavy  or  my  discourse  dull ;  for  I, 
Long  loving  the  old  road,  grass-grown,  though  trod 
By  many  a  stately  ghost,  may  soon  outpace 
Your  patience,  ambling  thoughtlessly  along, 
Nor  note  your  lagging  steps,  till  glancing  hack 
I  find  myself  companionless,  and  ye 
Asleep  among  the  hedges. 

*'  Iceland's  past 
Hath  been   my   dream -coast,  o'er  whose   breezy 

cliffs,  — 
Like  seabird  glorying  in  a  world-wide  fief, 
Its  will  the  only  pilot  of  its  course,  — 
Have  I  sailed  up  and  down  the  misty  shore. 
Hovering  whene'er  I  would,  or  hastening  by ; 
And  toward  the  daydawn  climbing,  have  I  lived 
That  happier  existence,  all  unvext 
By  the  dull  nowadays,  which  bairns  oft  know, 
Ere  the  blue  sky  where  late  they  trimmed  for  flight 
Hath  faded  from  their  eyes. 


"  Seeking  for  text 
I  do  but  stoop  and  loose  one  unbound  leaf 
From   Iceland's    storied    scrolls.     These,    legend- 
wise. 


KETILL    THE  SAGA  MAN. 


123 


All  lived  from  lip  to  lip  till  Saemund  came, 
Yclept  the  '  Learned,'  who  with  wizard  hand 
Nibbing  a  gray-goose  pinion,  gave,  and  said  : 
*  Thou  Ketill,  of  the  many  beardless  boys 
That  call  me  master,  art  my  most-beloved, 
Whose  presence  near  at  hand  hath  made  me  glad 
E'en  when  I  looked  not  on  thee,  and  whose  eyes, 
Flashing  with  youth  and  smiling  in  my  own 
Whene'er  I   smiled,  have   made   mine   own  grow 

young. 
To  thee,  then,  I  assign  the  hardest  task ; 
To  thee,  high-born,  of  lordly  heritage. 
And,  likelier  yet,  of  gentle  breeding  too,  — 
A  listener  worthy  of  the  subtlest  tongue, 
Thyself  apt-spoken  and  of  dextrous  quill, 
Precise  in  small  things,  patient  in  them  all  — 
(Your   pardon,    such   were    Saemund's   words    to 

me),  — 
To  thee,  whom  I  will  seal  my  son  and  heir, 
To  thee  I  set  apart  the  proudest  task. 
Come,  Ketill,  wed  thy  young  wit  unto  mine, 
And  fill  an  old  man's  cup  !     My  work  thou  kenst ; 
Draw  closely  to  my  side  till  thou  canst  feel 
The  flutter  of  my  pulse  and  read  my  thoughts ; 
And  even  as  thou  readest,  teach  thy  quill 
To  tell  them  to  the  parchment.     Toiling  thus, 


124 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN, 


!H  i 


As  west  winds  full  of  music,  from  the  hills 
Break  up  the  banks  of  sea-fog,  we  will  lift 
The  curtain  of  forgetfulness,  rebuild 
The  crumbling  ramparts  of  our  Iceland's  past ; 
And  peopling  these  with  men  and  womenfolk. 
Will  pulse  our  current  through  their  palsied  veins 
And  breathe  into  their  nostrils,  —  till  aroused, 
Heroes  shall  leap  from  their  long  dreamless  sleep, 
And  flinging  up  the  face-bar  of  their  helms 
Speak  and  instruct  us  ! ' 

"  Well  content  was  I, 
Loving  my  priestly  master,  whose  pale  face 
Shines  ever  yet  before  me  ;  and  forthwith. 
With  echoing  feet  we  through  the  cloisters  fared, 
Mingling  our  shadows  with  the  streaked  shade 
That  on  the  grassy  close  the  columns  cast,  — 
And  calling  down  the  swallows,  curve  on  curve 
Cutting  the  square  of  blue  that  smiled  above. 
Then  pushing  wide  the  panel  of  a  door. 
That  hoarsely  on  its  brazen  hinges  cried. 
We  wended  way  into  the  scrivener's  hall, 
High-roofed,  and  with  a  holy  stillness  filled  ; 
Where  'neath  the  softened  light  of  pictured  panes 
We  labored  pleasantly,  day  out,  day  in, 
To  give  tongues  to  the  parchments. 


KETILL    THE  SAG  A  MAN, 


125 


"  But  before 
My  band  was  weary  or  my  goose-quills  spent, 
More  bowed  was  Saemund  :  and  bis  manly  voice, 
That  erst  was  clear  and  mellow  in  its  ring, 
Grew  thin  and  treble.     Oft  he  stopt  for  words, 
Or  still  repeated  them,  —  the  thought  he  tracked 
Flying  before  him  like  a  hunted  thing. 
That  sails  a  little  space  and  soft  alights. 
But  when  you  come,  again  lifts  whirring  wings. 
And  one  gray  afternoon,  as  the  great  bell 
Boomed  forth  the  vesper  and  the  hour  of  rest, 
Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  a  phrase,  my  pen 
Still  thrilling  with  his  speech,  he  paused  and  ceased ;. 
And  when,  after  a  space,  I  eyed  askance. 
Thinking  to  find  him  buried  in  his  books, 
Silent  he  sat,  with  chin  upon  his  breast 
As  though  he  slept. 


"  But  to  that  sudden  sleep, 
Alas  !  my  friends,  no  waking  was  foredoomed  ; 
And  when  the  tumult  of  the  hour  was  past. 
And  groping  through  the  cloisters  I  crept  back 
To  the  low  desk,  I  found  the  room  grown  vast, 
I  heard  the  west  wind  weeping  at  the  eaves, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  death  still  winnowing 
The  night-air ;  and  upon  my  knees  I  breathed 


126 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


A  broken  prayer,  and  sobbed  there  in  the  dark. 
Then  rising,  to  the  blinking  wax  I  gave 
A  spark  of  life  ;  and  struggling  with  my  grief, 
Shore  off  the  chapter  where  my  hand  had  dropt, 
With  the  one  word,  then  taken  first  to  heart, 
A  simple  '  Finis.' 

"  Pitiful  it  was 
To  see  the  task  thus  broken  in  its  midst. 
But  well  I  wist  that  he  would  have  replied. 
In  that  all-brave,  all-hopeful  strain  of  his : 
*  Nay,  boy,  not  pitiful,  else  all  were  so 
In  this  world's  field.     The  cause  it  is  that  counts, 
And  not  one  standard-bearer  less  or  more. 
Our  ripest  work  must  hereto  come  at  last. 
For  none,  however  painfully  he  strive, 
Hath  ever  yet  been  able  at  the  end 
To  smile  and  say,  Now  is  my  work  complete, 
And  I  full  satisfied  !      But  well  it  is 
If  one  as  he  lies  down  to  sleep  can  sigh  : 
Unfinished  still  the  journey,  still  afar 
The  height  toward  which  I  toil ;  but  God  be  praised 
For  giving  me  the  strength  thus  much  to  gain  ! ' 

"  So  Saemund's  book  was  closed  ;  and  though  full 
fain, 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 

I  could  not  for  a  twelve-month  find  the  heart 
To  loose  the  hasp  that  bound  it,  and  turn  o'er 
The  painted  pages. 


127 


(( 


me  moons  after  that 
Came  to  me  learned  Ari,  Saemund's  friend, 
Versed  in  the  mystery  of  the  Roman  rune, 
With  this  upon  his  lips  :  '  His  wish  would  be, 
Who  from  his  labor  lieth  now  at  rest. 
That  we  who  loved  him  lift  and  carry  on 
The  load  he  late  let  fall.     Sole  heir  art  thou 
To  his  rich  lore,  and  ere  some  new  mischance 
Shall  whirl  and  scatter  to  the  windy  night 
The  leaves  of  Saemund's  knowledge,  let  us  speed 
To  lock  their  wealth  in  worthy  cabinets.' 


"Thus,  the  new  abbot  aiding,  —  who,  alas  ! 
Hath  lately  followed  Saemund  to  his  rest,  — 
The  treasure  grew,  the  famed  Landnama-Book, 
From  sun  to  sun  still  rounding  into  form 
As  others  to  it  leave  their  fresh  bequests  ; 
Which  to  the  gaze  of  Northmen  yet  to  come 
Will  track  the  footprints  of  our  centuried  past, 
And  where  they  last  would  challenge,  find  them 

friends 
And  old-time  fullness  of  their  new-formed  faiths." 


128 


KETILL    THE  SAGAMAIsT. 


IV. 


THE   SAGA   OF   THE   WEST. 


"  Such   were    the    tasks   wherehi    my  youth   was 

schooled. 
But  what  I  now  will  tell  is  still  unwrit, 
The  precious  heirloom  of  our  olden  house, 
Through  three  half-centuries  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Of  first-born  unto  first  in  turn  bequeathed, 
Until  to  me  it  latest  falls  :  —  a  tale 
That  is  no  romaunt,  gran  dam-rhymed,  to  make 
A  child  big-mouthed,  —  no  skaldic  trick  of  tongue 
To  tickle  a  yarl's  pride  and  tempt  from  him 
A  singing  purse ;  but  history's  own  shield, 
Dinted  and  scored  with  many  a  speaking  rune,  — 
Left  by  my  father  Ranglat  unto  me. 
And  by  his  mother  Steinunn  unto  him, 
And  by  her  father  Snorri  unto  her. 
And  by  his  sire  Karlsefne  unto  him. 
Who  left  its  story  woven  on  his  walls 
In  pictured  groups  and  runic  characters. 
And  carven  on  the  shoulders  of  his  bench, 
That  none  might  lose  or  twist  it. 


KETILL   THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


129 


youth   was 


ise, 

h  to  mouth 

led, 

o  make 
of  tongue 
lim 
d, 
rune,  — 


"  Thus  it  lived. 
But  Yarl  Karlsefne  told  it  not  as  I, 
Who  like  a  prattling  parrot  do  but  play 
The  mouthpiece  to  resound  another's  strain, 
For  he  was  one  of  the  brave  skipper  band, 
Whereof  I  speak,  who  in  his  dragon  sailed 
To  people  Vinland,  and  in  chiefest  deeds 
Was  one  of  the  chief  doers. 

"  Drink  with  me, 
My  friends,  to  his  fair  name,  my  kinsman  proud, 
This  Thorfinn,  clept  Karlsefne  or  '  The  Manly,' — 
This  worthy  Thorfinn,  Iceland's  merchant  prince, 
And  hero  of  all  heroes  in  my  tale. 
My  Vinland  Saga." 

Tall,  and  still  afoot. 
Bent  Ketill,  as  a  house-carle  brimmed  his  cup ; 
Puffed  the  light  foam  aside  to  wet  his  lips,  — 
Tilted  and  drained  it. 


ch. 


Then  once  more  the  King : 
"  First  at  thy  ease  be  cushioned,  guest  of  ours  ! 
Behold  thy  hearers  !  —  even  Valborg  here. 
Whose  comfort  most  we  reck  of,  next  to  thine. 
Hoping  that  she  may  second  thee  in  song. 


til 


i 


130 


KETILL    THE  SAG  AM  AN. 


Lieth  like  nestled  kitten  'neath  the  arm 

Of  Axel,  her  betrothed.     Rest  thou  at  ease  ! 

For  making  thee  our  guest,  our  house  is  thine, 

Our  arms,  our  underlings,  our  friends  thy  friends,  - 

Our  foes  thy  foes,  if  thou  wilt  father  them,  — 

Thine  whate'er  cheer  the  famished  wolf  of  Time 

Hath  in  our  cellars  left  unbroken  still, 

And  every  wish  of  thine,  our  wish  and  will." 


THE    END. 

Beyond  each  hill-top  others  rise^ 
Like  ladder-rungs^  toward  loftier  skies : 
Each  halt  is  but  a  breathing  space 
For  stirrup-cup  and  fresher  pace  ; 
Till  who  dare  say,  ere  night  descend, 
There  can  be,  ever,  such  thing  as  End  / 


MODERN   CLASSICS. 


The  convenient  little  volumes  published  under  this  title 
are  in  the  best  sense  c/iissu;  though  all  of  theni  arc  modern. 
They  include  selections  from  the  works  of  the  most  eminent 
writers  of  England  and  America,  and  translations  of  several 
masterpieces  by  Continental  authors. 

These  selections  are  not  what  are  generally  known  as  "ele- 
gant extracts,"  detached  paragraphs  which  are  peculiarly  quot- 
able ;  but  they  consist,  in  most  cases,  of  entire  poems,  essays, 
sketches,  and  stories.  The  authors  are  not  only  shown  at 
their  best,  but  so  fully  as  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  their 
various  styles,  modes  of  thought,  and  distinguishing  traits. 

In  several  instances  the  selections  from  an  author  are  ac- 
companied by  a  biographical  or  critical  essay  from  another 
writer,  —  an  arrangement  which  cannot  fail  to  lend  additional 
interest  both  to  the  essay  and  to  the  selections.  The  choice 
character  of  the  selections  in  these  volumes  makes  them  pe- 
culiarly desirable  for  household  libraries,  and  their  small  size 
fits  them  admirably  to  put  in  one's  pocket  for  reading  on  a 
journey.  The  series  contains  thirty-two  little  volumes,  care- 
fully printed,  very  tastefully  bound,  and  in  many  cases  illus- 
trated. 

Circulars  of  the  "  Modern  Classics,"  naming  the  contents 
and  the  authors,  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  on  application, 
by  the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY, 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


